The Starfish
by D'Artag-NOT
Summary: NOW COMPLETE. All Marcus meant to do was help one person in a way he could see. He thought it was enough. But it wasn't. Station senior personnel plus original characters. Multi-part story. Takes place after "Ceremonies of Light and Dark".
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS, whom I thank for letting me play in his sandbox.

**Chapter 1**

**"Please," Abbie whispered. "Let me go."**

But the big hand kept her pinned against the dirty bulkhead. The man whose face haunted all her worst dreams looked down at her and smiled.

"Let you go? I thought we were friends."

She shook her head so hard her teeth almost rattled.

"That's right. You never were very friendly, were you?"

Her fear froze her now. She could only stare up at him.

"Maybe you should call your daddy? You think?"

_He knew!_ Her heart hammered.

"Tell you what." His other hand moved down toward his trousers. " I'll make you my special friend. Then I'll let you go."

She was too terrified to scream, almost too terrified to breathe. There was no point in screaming anyway. The merchants and customers in the bazaar not ten meters away wouldn't even bother to look. Screams were just part of life here Downbelow, and people who wanted to survive tended to ignore them.

He began to unfasten his trousers. He was looking at her the way Bettina's customers looked at the girls. A wild panic seized Abbie. For a frenzied instant she was able to move, to flail at him with fists and feet.

Useless! She was too much smaller and weaker than he. He gripped her shirt even harder, jerked her forward, then slammed her skinny little frame back against the bulkhead. The breath was knocked out of her and she stopped hitting out and kicking, frozen again, helpless.

Against her will, her eyes were drawn from the horrible face to the hand fumbling at the trousers. It was all she could see; so the voice, when it came, startled her.

"I think the young lady is saying 'No'," the voice said.

And then the hand at the trousers was snatched away in a lightning-fast move by another hand. Abbie's paralysis broke and she was able to look up. Over her attacker's shoulder she saw a black-bearded man in a long, flowing black coat. He had seized the hand by the wrist and bent it behind her assailant's back.

Still, the grip on her shirt didn't loosen. "Listen, pal," the man from her nightmares said. "This is none of your business."

The black-bearded man raised his eyebrows. "Wrong, on all counts." He must have done something that hurt her attacker, because the hand on her shirt convulsed, then loosened just a bit.

"First," Abbie's rescuer continued. "I am _not_ your 'pal'. Second: this is my business."

Little clumps of people were drifting closer from the bazaar. The prospect of a good fight promised better, safer entertainment than the trifling spectacle of a child in trouble.

The bearded man twisted the other's arm behind his back, eliciting a groan. "Mankind is my business," he said. Another twist wrung out another groan. "The common welfare is my business." A twist; a groan. "Charity—mercy—forbearance—" Each word was punctuated by a fresh groan. The hand on Abbie's shirt had let go.

"—and _benevolence!_" The bearded man flung the other some two meters away in the direction of the crowd. "Are, all, my business! The dealings of my trade are but a tiny drop in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

He had moved to stand in front of her, like a protective wall. From nowhere, like magic, a long black staff had appeared in his right hand. Abbie crouched down and peered around the concealing folds of the flowing coat, to see her assailant painfully picking himself up, hugging his maltreated arm against his body.

Her rescuer's voice was quiet now as he said, "Have I made myself clear?"

The defeated man stood for a moment, glaring, chest heaving as he gasped for breath. For an instant his glance flickered to Abbie, who shrank back behind the coat.

"Fine," he said at last. (His voice, as well as his face, figured prominently in her nightmares.) "Fine. You want the brat? She's all yours." Still nursing his arm against his side, he turned and walked away.

Still, Abbie's rescuer didn't move, but stood in front of her as though he'd taken root. She was sandwiched between him and the bulkhead. She slid down and sat, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them, making herself small. From behind the coat, she could see the crowd beginning to melt away. Her rescuer stood his ground, swinging the staff in his hand with a casual air, until most of the onlookers had given up on further entertainment and gone back to their own concerns.

Only then did he turn toward her. As swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared, the black staff was gone. He was attaching a compact cylindrical object to his belt.

He looked down at her. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head No. Words were still ringing in her ears: _You want the brat? She's all yours._

_All yours._ Just because he'd bailed her out didn't mean he was nice. People Downbelow didn't do things just to be nice.

But—he didn't look as though he belonged Downbelow. For one thing, he was _clean_; his mane of black hair shone, the mustache and beard were well trimmed and tended. The black coat, as well as the brown tunic beneath it and the brown trousers, was clean. His clothes were unpatched, with no ragged or frayed edges. The tunic was belted at the waist and across the chest with well-polished leather and gleaming buckles. There was no musty smell of unwashed clothes or unwashed flesh. And her rescuer even wore a piece of jewelry, a shining squarish brooch near the right shoulder of the coat. Much too prosperous to belong Downbelow—but—the way he could fight, the way he'd thrown That Man around—

She found her voice, and the first thing she blurted out surprised them both.

"That stuff you were saying. About your business. That's from a book."

He smiled, as though pleasantly surprised. "_A Christmas Carol._ Charles Dickens. You know it?"

"My papa used to read it to me."

"Is he anywhere about?"

"He's dead."

The man cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Evidently he knew enough about life Downbelow to watch his back. Then he went down on one knee, coming to her eye level. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "Is there anyone looking out for you? Your mother?"

"She's dead too. She died when I was little." Abbie's stiff muscles began to relax. He wasn't blocking her off any more. If she needed to, she could run.

The bearded face was somber; as though her mother's distant death really mattered. "So, there's no one."

"That's okay," she lied. "I can look out for myself."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see that. Look—" he began, and reached out to take her hand.

She flinched back, bunching up small again.

"Sorry," he apologized, withdrawing his hand at once and getting to his feet. He stepped back a pace or two, spreading his hands out at his sides. "See? I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't mean to frighten you." His voice was quiet, soothing. "Let's start over. My name is Marcus. What's yours?"

"Abbie," she whispered.

"Well, Abbie, I don't know that you want to stay around here. That scoundrel may not be far. Whereabouts do you sleep? Is there someplace safe I can take you?"

In that moment, she decided she could trust him. He'd backed off when she'd made it clear she didn't want to be touched. He hadn't made any stupid, grownup comment like telling her how pretty her name was. He didn't use that silly voice some adults used in talking with her, as if she were a baby. In fact, he seemed quite prepared to take her anywhere she wanted to be, and then go on about his own business.

The thought of walking through Downbelow feeling _safe_ for once, with this dark protector at her side, was irresistible. Abbie unwrapped her arms from around her knees and stood up. As long as he was prepared to look out for her for a few minutes, she may as well make the most of it.

"Got anything to eat?" she asked.

**Neither Captain John Sheridan nor Commander Susan Ivanova was looking forward to the interview with Trade Minister Questal. **Since Babylon 5's declaration of independence from the corrupted government of Earth, the nuts and bolts of station operation and economics had come to assume more importance than either officer was comfortable with. Every report of a fresh attack by the resurgent Shadows made such mundane problems as docking schedules and customs regulations seem petty in the extreme.

But Babylon 5 might prove their best chance against what the Minbari Ambassador, Delenn, called "the Darkness"; and to provide that chance the station itself must survive, physically and economically. Sheridan and Ivanova had hoped for a little breathing time after members from the League of Non-Aligned Worlds had signed new commercial contracts with the independent station.

_The way life really works,_ Sheridan reflected, _I should have figured it wouldn't be that simple._

"Minister Questal, sir," Ivanova announced as the encounter-suited figure stumped into the room. Sheridan came forward to greet the visitor; remembering that the Gneissh put little stock in formalities or ceremonies, he didn't offer his hand to shake and confined his greeting to a simple, "Welcome, Minister." Questal's encounter suit was utilitarian, unlike the elaborate constructions worn by Vorlons, and it was easy to see that the Trade Minister was a thick-built, stumpy-legged humanoid. Behind the face-shield of his helmet a flat, grey face with small round eyes, slitty nostrils, and a wide, lipless, frog-like mouth was revealed. By Human aesthetic standards, the Gneissh were not an attractive people. But they were active traders, known to be fair and honest in their dealings, and to demand fair dealing in return. This was the first time one of their Trade Ministers had ever lodged a complaint; the first time, Sheridan readily acknowledged, that they'd had anything to complain about.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you refreshment, Minister," Sheridan went on. Usually Ivanova would have provided an assortment of carefully-selected beverages and snacks. But even Ivanova had never figured out how to feed an encounter-suited alien, who breathed a mixture of methane and God knew what else, in an oxygen-based atmosphere.

"I do not come to eat," Questal replied. Unlike many alien races, the Gneissh didn't rely on electronic translators, choosing instead to use their trade partners' own languages. "I come to talk. It is not satisfactory."

"I agree, sir, that—"

"I do not come to listen. I come to talk. When Babylon 5 is under the Earth government, everything works well. Our ships come and go, our people move freely about. Our quarters are safe; our trade centers are safe.

"Now Babylon 5 is not under the Earth government. Now things do not work so well. Now there are alarms. Our life-support systems go onto emergency backups! It is not satisfactory."

Here he paused, and Sheridan judged the time right for a reply. "As I was saying, Minister, I agree. It's not satisfactory, and we have our best people investigating the problem. In fairness, sir—" (It was a favorite phrase among the Gneissh.) "In fairness, these operational problems also occurred occasionally when the station was still allied with the government of Earth. We have the same technical staff now that we did then."

Questal said, "It is not an operational problem. It is our lives. First the primary systems fail. Do the emergency backups fail?"

It took Sheridan a moment to work out that the question was a speculative one. "Minister Questal, even if they did, we have backups to our backups."

"It is not satisfactory. We wish no further problems. We require your guarantee. Do you value our trade?" the Trade Minister asked bluntly.

Now Ivanova stepped in. "Trade Minister, we value the lives of everyone on this station—Gneissh, Human, Vorlon, everyone. I can promise you that we'll find this problem and fix it."

"I do not ask for that." Questal was not to be deterred. "I ask nothing of _you._ I ask Captain Sheridan to guarantee no further problems."

Sheridan took a deep breath, weighing whether or not to give that guarantee. " I guarantee that resolving this problem will remain my top priority," he said. If he promised no further problems and one occurred before the systems flaw was found, the Gneissh might easily claim that their contract with the station had been violated.

The helmeted head rotated slightly back and forth. "I leave you now," said Questal. "We wait. We watch. It is not satisfactory." With that, he turned his back on Sheridan, pushed past Ivanova, and stumped from the room. The Gneissh moved with none of the gliding grace of Vorlons. The door swung down shut behind him.

Sheridan felt like swearing, and it didn't help that Questal was absolutely right. _Not satisfactory_ was a mild way to put it. "We'd better have good news for him soon. Get after those techs, Susan. I want updated reports, and I want them in half an hour."

"Right on it, sir," she promised. He knew that a promise from Ivanova was as good as a finished deed. He wished that Babylon 5's systems were half as reliable.

**The waiter confused their orders, setting down the soup and half-sandwich at Abbie's place and the full sandwich with double fries in front of Marcus. **With a conspiratorial smile, Marcus quickly rearranged the dishes. He wasn't especially hungry and had only ordered a light meal for himself so the child wouldn't feel self-conscious. She plunged into her food with single-minded concentration. He began on the soup, studying her.

Nine or ten years old, he supposed. She had a dirty little triangular face, broad forehead tapering to a pointed chin, under a short, haphazardly-trimmed tangle of dark-blond curls. Tawny-hazel eyes.. She'd rubbed her grubby hands with their close-bitten nails on a paper napkin before the food arrived, and hungry though she obviously was she ate neatly, taking the time to chew and swallow each mouthful.

She wore a faded yellow shirt several sizes too large, a pair of blue pants chopped off at mid-calf, and scuffed sandals. He couldn't recall ever seeing her before.

After most of her sandwich and half the greasy fries had vanished, Abbie looked up and asked conversationally, "Did you ever read a book called _The Jungle Book?_"

"A long time ago."

"I've read parts of it. All the Mowgli parts. You remind me of Bagheera."

Marcus searched his memory and smiled. "The Black Panther. 'As cunning as the jackal, as bold as the wild bull, and as reckless as the wounded elephant.' Quite a flattering comparison. Thank you." Casually, he went on, "You know a lot about those old Earth books."

The child swallowed a mouthful of sandwich before answering, "Papa had a bookstore. Up on the Zocalo."

"What happened?"

"Those—it was those Nightwatch people. She sucked salt and grease from her fingers. "They made him close it. They said he was doing sed—sed—"

"Sedition?"

"That was it." She hesitated, a finger still in her mouth. "Is that something really bad?"

"Can be. But only if someone's really doing it."

"Well, then." Abbie licked the last of the salt from her hand. "Papa didn't do bad things. So he papa couldn't really have been doing it."

And that was probably all too true, Marcus thought to himself. He'd arrived on the station at the tail end of the Nightwatch's reign of fear. From what he knew of it, false accusations of sedition or worse had flown freely around the Zocalo for awhile.

"Anyway," Abbie was saying, "the Nightwatch people made him close the store. Then there was the fire, and we moved here, Downbelow."

"You said he was dead," Marcus prompted gently.

"That was later. There was this fight. He was—" The child hesitated, biting her lip. "Papa didn't know how to—Anyway." She gave an indifferent little shrug and stuffed the last bit of her sandwich into her mouth.

"No friends or anything looking out for you?"

The look she gave him was pained, expressive of all the exasperation childhood can feel at the ignorance of adults. "When those Nightwatch people close you down, you don't _have_ any more friends. Anyway, I can look out for myself. I'm not a baby."

"That's right. I'd forgotten." He took another spoonful of soup. "I suppose that means you've found quarters, someplace to sleep, that sort of thing?"

Instantly he realized he'd probed too far. The child snatched up a napkin and dumped the few fries remaining on her plate into it. "Gotta go. Thanks for lunch." She was already on her feet, ready to flee.

Before the words, "Sorry, didn't mean to pry" were out of his mouth she'd dashed past him and out of the dingy little café. He half-rose to follow her, then thought better of it. This wasn't a case of prizing information from one of his contacts; it was more like taming a wild little animal who'd learned to be wary. It would take time and patience, if it could be done at all.

Marcus sat down to finish his meal and saw that the half-sandwich had vanished from his plate.

The waiter drifted over to collect the empty dishes and mumbled, "Anything else?"

"Just an answer. That little girl who was with me—have you seen her before?"

The waiter pondered. His round doughy face was set in a dull expression that failed to change. "Dunno. Maybe. Who notices kids?"

"I've noticed that one. Now, if I were to learn that she'd been hurt in any way, or even frightened—why, that would make me very, very unhappy." Marcus met the waiter's eyes. He went on, softly: "I'm unpleasant when I'm unhappy. I tend to do regrettable things."

"Yeah?" the waiter responded.

"Now, if you should happen to have any friends, you might let them know that." A five-credit piece caught the café's dim light, and the waiter's eyes glimmered with an access of intelligence. Cash money was hard to come by Downbelow, and precious. "Understood?" asked Marcus.

"Yeah."

Marcus spun the coin at the man, who caught it deftly.

It wasn't much, Marcus reflected, and for all he knew the waiter would pocket the coin and forget the warning. He paid for the two meals and left the café with an irritating sense of having left business unfinished. Though he kept watch for the rest of the day, the child had vanished as completely as his purloined sandwich.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Abbie had, in fact, a regular place to sleep. **But she wasn't about to admit to Marcus where it was.

She headed there directly from the café, stowing the sandwich and fries inside her oversized shirt. If she hurried, she could get to Bettina's in time to hide her booty and then finish sweeping and picking up before opening time. That would probably get Bettina in a good mood, though you could never be sure. If Bettina were in a good mood, she might let Abbie borrow some soap and a comb from one of the girls.

Abbie feared Bettina and hated her girls. There were usually three or four girls—they tended to come and go—and they didn't do anything but sleep most of the day and drink with the customers all night. Periodically, one would disappear to the back rooms with a customer and they'd return a short while later. The girl would be giggling, the customer wearing a happy, stupid smile. Sometimes, from her pallet in the storeroom late at night, Abbie could hear them pant and grunt.

The girls claimed that this was work, and Bettina seemed to agree; she gave them rooms with good beds, money for food, nice clothes. Abbie just had a pallet in the storeroom because, according to Bettina, she didn't work.

"It ain't like you're working, kid," was the way Bettina put it. "It's just pure charity I keep you here at all."

Maybe Bettina and the girls didn't think that mopping and sweeping up and clearing tables and washing glasses was work, but that's what it felt like to Abbie. She got Bettina's place clean during the day. Rarely, one of the girls would tell her to clean up spilled liquor and other things in a back room, and change the soiled, stinking sheets. In return, Bettina let her sleep nights in the storeroom and scrounge the leftover food. It wasn't fair, that she did the most and got the least, but it was a place to sleep.

A nasty kind of place, though, with the customers drinking too much and putting their hands and mouths all over the girls, and the girls squealing as though they liked it. Papa would have been horrified at her living at a place like that. But papa had gone and let himself get killed. . . .

She ran in, slipped among the tables to the storeroom, and carefully hid her food in her special place behind the stacked liquor crates. At least she already had her next meal. She left the storeroom and grabbed her mop. She'd have to work fast today.

**There would be no good news for Questal.**

As promised, Ivanova had updated tech reports on Sheridan's desk within half an hour. According to them, the life-support systems for all sections of Babylon 5 were working perfectly. Every diagnostic routine had run with smooth perfection.

The other report, the one Ivanova had added on her own, was the operations log from C and C. It showed four separate interruptions of life-support in the Alien Sector—specifically, in the methane-atmosphere sections of the station—within a twelve-hour period.

Sheridan ordered another full set of diagnostics. Again, everything checked out. It didn't make sense, and Sheridan distrusted things that didn't make sense. Not quite twenty-four hours after his meeting with Questal, he called his command staff together.

Besides Ivanova, Security Chief Michael Garibaldi, and Dr. Stephen Franklin, Sheridan had Marcus Cole attend the meeting. Since being posted on Babylon 5 by the Rangers, Marcus had spun a web of contacts that was inaccessible to the regular command staff. Sheridan was looking for answers anywhere he could find them.

When they were assembled, he explained the situation briefly.

"Lemme get this straight," said Garibaldi when Sheridan had finished. His mouth, which quirked up at the corners, and the strong arch of his eyebrows, gave his face a permanent air of mocking amusement that was only partly belied by his puzzled scowl now. Behind the devil-may-care attitude lay a shrewd mind capable of an infinite degree of suspicion. "Life-support starts to fail in the meth sections, the alarms go off, everyone's warned to evacuate, and then the backups kick in?"

"That's about the size of it," Ivanova replied. "And all our technical resources say it shouldn't be happening."

"Then you're talkin' sabotage."

"Funny kind of sabotage," commented Dr. Franklin. "Cutting life-support but leaving the backups and warning systems intact."

Sheridan lifted his hands in an expressive shrug. "That's it, in a nutshell. If it _is_ a computer glitch, why doesn't it show up on diagnostics? They're picking up other, minor problems. And if it's sabotage, why doesn't it do any real damage? When we had those bombings we at least knew what we were dealing with."

"Even assuming it is sabotage," said Franklin. "Why the Alien Sector? Why the methane-atmosphere sections? Call me ethnocentric, but considering that the entire command staff and most of the diplomats here breathe oxygen, it seems the O2 sections would make a better target."

Garibaldi said, "The Vorlons? They breathe methane. This could be aimed at them."

"Or maybe the idea is to bring about just what's happening," said Ivanova. "The Gneissh have all but threatened to abrogate their contract with the station. They could take at least a dozen of their trade partners with them, and that would finish us off economically. Earthdome would love that."

Sheridan said, "Let's leave off speculation for now. What do we actually know? Marcus, have you heard anything that could throw some light on this?"

The Ranger gave it a moment's thought, then shook his head. "There's always some interspecies tension Downbelow, but I haven't heard particular complaints against the methane-breathing races." He flashed Ivanova a quick smile. "And people there don't have much grasp of higher economic theory. Now I know what to look for, I'll stir the pot, see what I find."

'You do that," said Sheridan. "Michael, I'll need a full background check on everyone aboard who has advanced computer knowledge. That includes command staff, Brother Theo's monks—everyone."

"Got it," Garibaldi said.

Sheridan went on, "Stephen, I know you're already swamped as hell down in Medlab; but we need a med-evac team ready around the clock to suit up and go in there if life-support really does fail."

Franklin, already worrying about how his grossly overworked staff was managing while he was at this meeting, nonetheless nodded briefly and said, "I'll see to it."

"We should schedule some additional evac drills," suggested Ivanova. "In all sections of the station. That'll show the Gneissh that we're serious about safety—and keeping our own people on their toes won't hurt."

Sheridan nodded his approval and dismissed the meeting.

**He saw her from the corner of his eye as the last hand was dealt.** The skinny figure in the shabby clothes hovered in one of the shadowy corners of the tavern, which was, appropriately, named Abandon All Hope. Not wishing to call attention to the child, Marcus pretended he hadn't noticed her as he gathered up his cards.

Over the past hour he had determined that these two particular contacts—a Human smuggler and her Drazi co-pilot—knew nothing about any putative sabotage and less about computer systems. Time now to skillfully misplay this hand and withdraw from the game, after losing back most of the money he had won from them as a down payment for any future transactions.

Perversely, it was the best hand he'd been dealt all evening. Squandering the three queens inconspicuously took concentration, but Marcus managed it, still keeping an eye on Abbie. He pushed the stacks of chips to the center of the table with a philosophical shrug. Commenting that his luck seemed to have soured, he tossed in his cards and rose from the table. The smuggler, the Drazi, and the other three players lost interest in him almost immediately in a squabble over the winnings.

Abbie was at his side as he left the Abandon All Hope, suddenly, as though she'd materialized in the doorway. He looked down at her with a smile. "Hello."

"How come you lost?" she asked. "You had a good hand."

"No one wins all the time."

He didn't know which bothered him more, her unchildlike knowledge of poker or the ready nod with which she accepted his pessimistic explanation. "Haven't had dinner yet," he said. "Care to join me?"

Abbie pretended to demur for a moment before answering nonchalantly, "I could eat."

She could indeed. They patronized a different café, and as before there was no conversation until the child had begun to appease her hunger. Marcus, doing full justice to his own meal this time, thought angrily that no child should be this hungry.

In his own secure, carefree boyhood and youth, as far removed from him now as Stonehenge, he couldn't remember ever having gone hungry. That had come later, during a supply cutoff at the Ranger camp on Zagros 7. Three days on half-rations. Two more on quarter-rations. Another three days on no rations at all. Marcus had endured it, as one must, though by the time relief came he'd been ready to devour his own boots. He would never forget that desperate, gnawing craving. Imagine that, coupled with the normal appetite of healthy childhood . . . . Unconscionable.

Abbie, momentarily setting down her fork, swallowed and asked, "Do you have any kids?"

It took a second for him to return from his brooding and register the question. "What?—No. Why?"

"No little sisters, or nieces, or anything?" she persisted.

"No. No one."

"I was just wondering." She resumed eating. The explanation came a couple of bites later. "I was kind of wondering how come you bailed me out yesterday. I thought maybe you had a daughter or something. You know. Like, I reminded you of her."

"Nothing like that. Let's just say I don't approve of bullies. Besides, it isn't every day I get to rescue a damsel in distress."

The child's hazel eyes lit up. "Like a knight in shining armor. Did you ever read about King Arthur and—" She stopped, studying his face. "You're smiling," she said accusingly. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Not at all. Laughing with you. Yesterday I was a Black Panther. Today you've got me at the Table Round."

She smiled—actually grinned. "Well, you're a good fighter. I wish—I wish my papa—" The dawning laughter abruptly died out of her face. She looked down at her plate and said, "Anyway. You must have started out with a family. Everyone does."

Marcus realized that, in a halting way, she was trying to talk about her own loss. His throat tightened. Infinitely worse than Zagros 7—the pain, the almost unbearable shock of losing your whole world. Everyone and everything suddenly, irretrievably, forever snatched from you, and no one to care . . . . And she was a child, alone, here Downbelow.

He swallowed hard, then spoke quietly, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He wasn't about to burden this child with his grief along with her own. "You're right, of course. I did start out with a family. My parents died fairly early, and then my brother. So now there's just me," he finished, lightly.

That, he thought, should answer her question. Maybe now she would feel able to talk about her loss. In theory, that would help her face it, cope with it. In theory.

Abbie picked up a peach, the last portion of her meal and one of two he had ordered at an obscenely inflated price. He planned to give her the second one when they'd finished, in an offhand sort of way so she wouldn't feel patronized. Abbie studied the fruit for a moment, then bit into it. Juices ran down her chin. She ate thoughtfully, without much evident enjoyment, and mumbled around the last of it, "So after a while, it's okay? You don't care any more?" As she asked the question, she looked up and her eyes met his.

Dear God. He'd wanted to avoid burdening her, but _that _wasn't what he'd meant to tell her. Nonplussed, he fumbled for words. "Not exactly," he said. "It's not that you stop caring. You—get used to it, is all."

Tears were welling in Abbie's eyes. She blinked them away, still looking into his face. Abruptly, her sticky little hand closed around his. "I'm sorry, Marcus. It must've been awful." The, as suddenly as she'd taken his hand, she released it and was on her feet, averting her eyes. "I gotta go."

A moment later, she was gone. So, of course, was the second peach. He'd meant it as a gift for her , and now, somehow, he'd let her down, driven her beyond her emotional endurance until she'd been forced to flee, and forced by the specter of hunger to become a thief. The idea of her offering sympathy to him! _That wasn't what I meant to do,_ he thought, _that wasn't it at all._

With a determined lift of his chin, he looked around, summoned the waiter, and fished in his pocket for one of his few remaining coins, which he held up casually between two fingers.

"That little girl I was with," he began.

**The life support system in the Alien Sector of Babylon 5 continued to function perfectly.**

That evening, at a public comm console Downbelow, a tall man with prominent cheekbones and a long, jutting jawbone entered a command. The station's systems responded.

In Earhardt's Bar, lights flickered and dimmed, then came back up. Ivanova and Garibaldi, sharing a quick bite to eat at the end of their duty watches, glanced up at the nearest fixture and exchanged a worried look.

Dr. Franklin, both hands occupied with a crewman's hot appendix, shouted for backup lights a second before they kicked in and ended a momentary total power failure in Medlab.

Five minutes after the tall man had walked away from the public comm, the entirety of Downbelow was plunged into complete darkness. Marcus, quietly eavesdropping on a conversation between two dust smugglers, calmly slipped his Minbari fighting pike into his hand. Then he set out to determine the extent of the problem and, more importantly, the reaction of his neighbors.

If he hadn't been aware of the inexplicable problems elsewhere on the station, Marcus realized, he wouldn't think twice about this. Power interruptions were not uncommon Downbelow. He watched as hand lamps, candles, and emergency lumes flickered on. Their half-light revealed shapes of people feeling their way along the bulkhead, of a couple clutching one another in panic. No proper lights anywhere. Marcus slipped along the corridor, listening.

"Nothing, nothing," a voice complained, "even the damn Babcom's off, we can't even report this—"

"Like anyone would care," came a scornful reply. "Just a bunch of Lurkers. We could all die, who'd notice?"

Discontent followed him along the corridor to the nearest tavern, an establishment that changed owners so often that no one bothered to give it a name. Two shadows heaved and grappled in a flicker of candles. Abruptly, the station lights flared on. The combatants ignored them and continued to wrestle, knocking over a table; the tavern's current owner and his son rushed forward to separate them. Marcus moved away, drifting unobtrusively through crowds, listening, on his way to report to Sheridan. He speculated as to how many extra pockets had been picked, how many additional murders had been committed during the five minutes or so of unexpected darkness. And he found himself searching, in vain, for a shabby little girl.

When the darkness hit, Abbie was squirreling away an unexpected bounty of food. One of the customers had had a party, and extra refreshments had been there for the taking, Bettina and the girls had been so busy drinking and laughing and kissing customers that no one noticed her. She'd collected enough for the whole next day and had just finished stowing it, beside the peach, in her secret place when everything went dark.

She froze in place, holding her breath, waiting for lights to come back on. When they didn't, she groped her way to her pallet and huddled there, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them. _It's only dark,_ she scolded herself, miserably aware of her own hard-pounding heart. _Only babies are afraid of the dark._ And then, _I'll bet Marcus isn't afraid._

No, Marcus wouldn't be afraid. He was brave as a Black Panther. Abbie hugged her knees a little tighter, pretending that Marcus knew where she was and was coming to get her. She imagined the scrape of the storeroom door's rusty hinges, and the sound of his voice calling her name. "It's all right," he'd say. "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

For a long time, she'd imagined about Papa: that he wasn't dead, that he was just away, missing her as much as she missed him, hurrying back to find her. But it never worked, because she knew better. He never came and never would come. Pretending he was going to finally got too painful to keep up.

Abbie felt tears stinging her eyes and reminded herself, _Only babies cry._

Well—almost. Marcus had almost cried, at dinner. She'd hardly believed it—could still hardly believe it—but there was no other explanation for the stricken look on his face, or for the way he couldn't talk for a couple of seconds. It happened just that way with her sometimes, especially after one of her nightmares, but sometimes in daytime too. For just that instant, Marcus had been caught in a daytime nightmare, and she'd known that something horrible had once happened to him too.

But Marcus was brave. He hadn't really cried. Just almost. Maybe it was okay to almost cry . . . .

She huddled there, breathing in the faint scent of the peach, until the lights came back on.

**Even though they were all off watch, Sheridan, Ivanova, and Garibaldi had immediately returned to duty when the first damage reports started coming in. **Marcus joined them a few minutes later in Sheridan's office. Ivanova already had a preliminary report.

"Brownouts, blackouts, and power failures all over the place," she said. "At least in the oxygen-atmosphere sections. Guess it's our turn. The techs are running diagnostics on it now. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll find something."

"Specifics," said Sheridan.

"Total power failure for about five minutes Downbelow," Marcus said. "So far, people seem to be taking it as a matter of course. The general sense is that no one topside gives a damn. I'd suggest extra security patrols."

"Already in place," said Garibaldi. "Stephen reported a few seconds' failure in Medlab. Auxiliaries kicked in, but they were sluggish."

Ivanova finished, "Brownouts throughout most of the Zocalo. There are about forty people trapped in lifts and transport tubes; I've got work crews out. Oh, and one other thing. Londo Mollari—"

She was interrupted by the beep of the captain's handlink, and waited while he answered, "Sheridan."

"Sir, it's Lieutenant Corwin." The young officer's voice sounded strained. "Ambassador Mollari is calling, again. He says he's still trapped in his quarters, and—"

"Stand by, Lieutenant." Sheridan muted the handlink and looked inquiringly at Ivanova.

"As I was saying, sir," she went on. "It seems that everything in his quarters works fine, except the door."

"Something wrong with the manual override?" asked Marcus in some surprise.

"Hard to say." Ivanova offered a tight little smile. "He won't try it. He's 'an Ambassador, not a servant'."

The Centauri Ambassador had been a thorn in Sheridan's side since the day he'd assumed command of Babylon 5. "Well, in that case, he can just—"

"Captain." Ivanova gestured to Sheridan's handlink. "_Everything_ else in Londo's quarters works fine. Including his comm unit."

"Understood," the captain sighed. He would as soon left Londo confined to quarters till doomsday, but he couldn't do that to Corwin. He reactivated the link. "Lieutenant. Inform the Ambassador that we're making his damn door our highest priority."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Even before mid-morning in the bazaar Downbelow, games of chance were in full swing.** Some, indeed, had been going on all night, interrupted only briefly by the previous night's blackout. One of Marcus' contacts, a petty thief, pickpocket, and fence known as Packrat, had agreed to meet him at the corner of the bazaar where a tall, seven-fingered alien ran an endless shell game.

The Packrat was an undersized Human of uncertain age, indeterminate ancestry, and unquestioned dishonesty. He collected news and gossip as assiduously as he did small, portable valuables, and for a consideration he would pass it along. Some weeks ago, he had attempted to filch Marcus' Ranger brooch. After a hasty and extremely one-sided negotiation, the Packrat had agreed to keep Marcus supplied with information. Marcus, in turn, had agreed not to break every bone in the Packrat's wrist.

Due to the spontaneous nature of the Packrat's business, he never set a time for contact. Marcus simply showed up and faded inconspicuously into the shifting collection of people, both Human and alien, who watched the shell game. There were always two or three marks at the seven-fingered thimble rigger's square little table. Marcus thus enjoyed the dual advantages of being easy to find and of having some mild entertainment while he waited.

He was simultaneously engaged in watching for the Packrat and trying to see exactly when the thimble rigger palmed the pea, when he became aware of a movement by his right elbow. Instinctively, he flicked a glance over just before Abbie timidly plucked at his sleeve.

He acknowledged her with a nod and stepped back a few paces, quietly detaching himself from the crowd, still on the lookout for the Packrat. She moved with him, one hand behind her back. Damned inconvenient if the Packrat were to show up now.

Without preliminary, Abbie brought the peach out from behind her back and held it out to him. "I—I kind of—I mean, I think maybe this is yours."

He looked down at her, surprised. "No, it's yours. They were both for you."

"It's okay. Really," she insisted, still offering the fruit. "I had breakfast this morning."

"I'm glad of that, but it's still yours."

She slowly drew it back, then grinned and said, "Thanks. Is it okay if we—I mean, can we just talk awhile?"

"Of course. But I'm not sure how long I can stay. I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh. A _girl_," she said, with a preternatural worldly-wisdom that made him feel rather sick. There was a tinge of disapproval in her voice.

"No, nothing so pleasant. A business associate. Not a particularly nice fellow. I'd rather keep him away from you."  
She smiled, obviously relieved, and said, "Okay. Let me know when to cut out." Nodding toward the shell game, she asked, "Do you think he cheats?"

The conversation that ensued was casual. Marcus let Abbie steer it, and she stuck to inconsequential topics. They decided that the thimble rigger probably did cheat. Abbie quizzed Marcus about books, wanting to know if he'd read her particular favorites, and, if he had, if he'd liked them. They chatted amiably for awhile about King Arthur, and from there went on to Robin Hood: comforting ancient legends of honor and valor, of the weak protected by the strong.

Abbie began nonchalantly to eat the peach, with the good healthy hunger of a child wanting a snack rather than the concentrated attack he'd seen her make on the meals he'd provided. So, he thought with relief, she really had had breakfast. Good. He watched her eat and thought, _It's not just food she's starved of._ The child obviously craved simple companionship as much as regular meals.

Something should be done; there was so much she needed—

Just then he glimpsed the Packrat.

He'd been idly explaining the difference between Will Scarlett, Will Scathelock, and sly Will Stutely of Sherwood Forest. Now he interrupted himself in mid-sentence. "Sorry, Abbie. The man I'm meeting is almost here."

"That's okay." Her voice was almost cheerful. "Thanks. See you later." With a smile and a wave, she headed off into the bazaar. Marcus watched after her until she disappeared between two booths. She hadn't uttered a syllable of protest; just taken it for granted that she was a lesser concern. _This isn't right,_ Marcus thought, and turned to his duty and his informant.  
And then he was glad that Abbie had left so quickly, for just entering the bazaar from a nearby corridor he saw the man who'd had her trapped against the bulkhead.

The Packrat sidled up next to him and said, "Better late than never, huh?"

Marcus seized the informant's shoulder. "Your timing's perfect. That man, over there by the fruit kiosk—what can you tell me about him?"

The Packrat looked. Stared. Twisted around in Marcus' grasp to look up at him in fear. "_Him?_ You mean the tall guy with the big chin? That's the Hunter, man. You don't wanna know nuttin' about him."

"Yes. I do. I want to know everything about him." Marcus had kept his eyes fixed on the man he still thought of as Abbie's attacker.

Suddenly, as though aware of that steady gaze on him, the Hunter scowled, looked over his shoulder, and glanced here and there through the throngs in the bazaar. For an instant, his eyes and the Ranger's met and held.

The Packrat wriggled frantically. "Look, you wanna mess with the Hunter, fine, just lemme go!"

Marcus turned and hustled the little informant away from the bazaar, toward the Abandon All Hope. Once there, he ordered two drinks and said to the Packrat, "Now. Talk."

The Packrat downed his liquor in a gulp. "Look. Marcus. You'n'me, we're friends, right?"  
"Wrong. We're business associates."

"Business associates, sure, that's what I meant. We got us this arrangement, right? I pass sump'm along to you, I treat you square, you treat me square, right? I don't double-cross you, you don't hurt me, ain't that how it is?"

"So far," Marcus replied.

"But _him_—!" The Packrat peered anxiously through the dim light of Abandon All Hope. "The Hunter, why, he'd cut up his granma just to hear her squeal. He's _scary,_ man."

"'Scary'. How?"

"Just—the way he talks, the things he says."

"You've talked with him, then?"

"Me?" The Packrat gaped in surprise, revealing yellowing teeth. "You think I'm nuts? I don't want nuttin' to do with him. Just—sometimes he sits and talks, y'know? Buncha guys come and listen, y'know?"

Of course. A gathering, intent on a speaker, among whom the Packrat could harvest the small, valuable things he loved. "And what do they hear?" Marcus asked.

"Well—" The informant glanced about nervously again and muttered, "Sure am thirsty."

Impatiently, Marcus shoved over his own untouched drink. The Packrat seized and swallowed it in a single, uninterrupted motion. "Guy talks about how everybody's problems is the aliens' fault."

"Which aliens?"

"Name one. It don't matter. Minbari, Brakiri, Centauri—when the Markabs snuffed it in that plague, he said it was a good start."

"Don't suppose he's very fond of Vorlons or Gneissh," Marcus ventured.

"Meth-heads', he calls 'em. You know, like 'Boneheads' for Minbari."

"These meetings. Where are they held? When?"

"Not meetin's, exackly. I just come acrost 'em one or two times. Odd places, odd times. Look, Marcus, you wanna stay away from the Hunter. He likes hurtin' people. I seen it."

"So have I." Marcus signaled the waiter and ordered two more drinks. This time he made sure to drink his own. The bite of the mediocre ale washed away a little of the bile that rose in his throat at the memory of the pleasure, almost erotic, on the Hunter's face as he pinned Abbie, struggling and helpless, against the bulkhead.

"Is 'Hunter' his name, or just what he's called?"

"I dunno. I never heard him called nuttin' but the Hunter." The Packrat nervously turned his empty glass in his nimble fingers, and took another anxious look around the tavern as though he expected the Hunter to materialize any second. "Listen, that all you wanted? 'Cause I think maybe he seen us. I mean, seen me talkin' to you. You gotta take him on, take him on. Just leave me outta it."

"That's all." Marcus deliberately glanced down as though to make sure his brooch was still there. "Thanks. You've been very helpful."

"Yeah, sure." The little informant's voice was sarcastic as he got up to leave. "You mess with the Hunter, don't ever ask me nuttin' again. Get your own neck broke."

**Garibaldi appeared at Sheridan's office flanked by Brother Theo and a second monk**. Brother Theo's middle-aged, bearded face was tranquil, as always; the other monk, thin as a rail and notably older, was holding eagerness in check. Garibaldi introduced him at once. "Cap'n, this is Brother Bernard. I've told Brother Theo what's going on; he thinks Brother Bernard can help us."

Coming from Garibaldi, this meant that both monks had been thoroughly checked out and posed no threat. "Go on," Sheridan said.

"As you know, Captain, our Order is not a political body," said Brother Theo. "Your current struggles with the government of Earth are unfortunate, but temporal. Our concerns are eternal."

"Yes, I know. The names of God, as revealed to all His children," Sheridan said, impatient, wondering when Theo would get to the point.

'However, what Mr. Garibaldi tells us is profoundly disturbing. An attempt to disrupt life-support—even the threat to do so—shows a disregard for the most fundamental moral principles."

Trust Brother Theo, Sheridan thought, to cut through speculations about motives and the calculation of consequences, to focus unerringly on the simple proposition that what was happening was _wrong_.

"Surely the Almighty did not intend His gifts of reason, logic, and purpose to be used for such ends," said Brother Bernard, leaning forward eagerly. "Brother Theo has been kind enough to permit me to offer my help."

"What kind of help?"

Within a minute of asking the question, Sheridan was half regretting it. Techno-junkies are all the same, whether they wear the casual garb of a student, the uniform of an Earthforce engineer, or the black-and-white robes of the Dominican Order; and Brother Bernard was a techno-junkie. After ten minutes of listening to a torrent of graduate-level computer jargon. Sheridan was able to interrupt, only marginally confident that he know what Bernard was saying. "Excuse me, Brother Bernard, excuse me—" The monk stopped talking and waited. The captain went on, "If I understand you, you're offering to set up an independent system to monitor the station's computer systems."

"Life-support and maintenance functions only," Brother Bernard corrected him, with the patience of a really good professor encouraging a promising freshman. "I can set it up independently of the station's own monitors and diagnostics. It will be quite undetectable and will in no way interfere with routine station functions. All I need do is—"

"Brother," interrupted Brother Theo smoothly. There was a twinkle in his eye. "I'm sure we needn't take too much of Captain Sheridan's time on the details, fascinating though they are. Captain, let me assure you that there would be absolutely no charge for this service."

Since Brother Theo and his monks derived their entire income from offering such services, this was a generous offer. "I appreciate that," Sheridan began, "though frankly I wasn't worried about that aspect of it."

"Captain. Please," said Brother Bernard, leaning forward again. "Permit me to offer my own poor gifts in God's service."

The lean monk's eagerness, and the purity of devotion that burned in his eyes, reminded Sheridan irresistibly of Lennier, Delenn's temple-bred aide. "I'd be very grateful for your help," he said. "Thank you very much."

"Thank you for your time, Captain. Brother Bernard will begin work at once. Come, Brother." Brother Theo gave a slight bow, then led his colleague from the room. At the door he paused and turned. The twinkle was back. "As always, Captain, you are in my prayers." The door hissed shut behind the two robed figures.

"Good job, Michael," Sheridan said to Garibaldi.

The security chief shrugged it off. "Any help we can get, right? I might even say a prayer or two myself."

**All hell was not breaking out on the command deck, but in Ivanova's opinion it was close enough.** Now it was the communications grid that flickered and failed at unpredictable intervals. More than a dozen dockings and at least ten departures had been disrupted. As Sheridan returned from his meeting with Garibaldi, the problem was being compounded as the comm channels filled up with complaints, further disrupting operations. Ivanova tersely briefed the captain on the situation, then demanded of Lt. Corwin, "Well? Any results on those diagnostics?"

"Yes—sorry, Commander. Um, all the diagnostics show that the comm systems are working perfectly."

She kept her temper, as always, but muttered, "Who'd have thought it'd be so damn frustrating, living in a perfect world?"

**Marcus' domestic arrangements were minimalist at best—he never entertained and seldom ran the risk of eating his own cooking**—but there were a few staples he kept on hand. He was looking over a selection of overpriced teas in the bazaar when he saw the Packrat slip up alongside him.

"Don't lookit me, don't say nuttin', just listen," the informant muttered.

Marcus picked up a tin of Earl Grey and studied it.

"Over t'yer right. Guy inna brown jacket."

The tin slipped from Marcus' grasp and he stooped to retrieve it, casting a quick glance to his right as he did so. Replacing the container on its shelf, he nodded slightly.

"Seen him here. Seen him topside, too. Follows the Hunter around." The Packrat picked up an ornamental spoon from the stall and considered it.

"Extra security patrols," Marcus said, very quietly, returning favor for favor. The thief reluctantly laid the spoon back on the counter.

"'M gettin' off this tin can. Too damn hot now. Got a transport ticket a hour ago."

"Take care," Marcus said to the caddy of Darjeeling he'd just selected.

"Look who's tellin' me to be careful."

It was the Packrat's farewell; the next moment, he was gone.

Somewhere near a docking bay, Marcus knew, an increasingly frantic traveler was searching through pockets and luggage for the ticket now in the Packrat's possession. No doubt the Packrat would survive; his kind always did. Not such a bad sort, really, provided you counted your fingers after shaking his hand.

One last time, Marcus checked that he still had his brooch. Then he bought the Earl Grey and drifted casually away, keeping an eye on the man in the brown jacket. Middle-aged; middle-sized; round dark eyes; limp hair dyed black but showing pale at the roots; nose slightly crooked, as though it had once been broken. Marcus shadowed the man for several hours, thoroughly memorizing the face until it was as familiar to him as his own. Eventually, the man went into private quarters. Marcus noted the location and waited nearby for four hours, well into the station's night cycle. The man didn't reappear. And there was no sign of the Hunter.

**The recurrent power and systems failures meant different things, depending on whom you asked**. Trade Minister Questal and the Gneissh saw them as an inexcusable interruption of commerce, to which the Gneissh were so dedicated that they had already filed several complaints about the time lost to Ivanova's extra evacuation drills.

To the command staff, the problems were both a threat to the station and part of what Garibaldi described as "a conspiracy to make our lives miserable". Brother Theo regarded them as a manifestation of sin; Marcus, as both a wrong to be righted and a mystery to be solved. But there was an entirely different aspect of the situation that seemed vital to Minbar's Ambassador Delenn.

"The Shadows," she said, at the regular biweekly meeting of the War Council several days after Brother Theo's meeting with Sheridan. The captain had just outlined the situation for her benefit. "Should this station fall, our efforts against them would be weakened, perhaps irrevocably."

Ivanova shifted in her chair and said through compressed lips, "With respect, Delenn, we already know that. The station has to survive; that's a given."

"Of course," Delenn said at once. "I meant no offense. But it is possible that this is some new move on their part."

Garibaldi, frowning a little in thought, said, "I dunno. Ambassador, I know you know more about these Shadows than any of us, but I've got to disagree. If they could mess with our systems like that, why not just blow the station to bits? One clean strike?" He glanced around the table at the others: Sheridan, Ivanova, Franklin, Delenn, and Marcus. "My gut tells me that when we get to the bottom of this we'll find something a lot more familiar than Shadows."

"Such as?" asked Franklin.

The security chief shrugged. "Such as a Human. Or a Drazi, or a Centauri—maybe even a Minbari." (Delenn bristled, very slightly.) "Someone who's causing problems for reasons of their own."

"Have you any evidence for this opinion?" Delenn asked, a little stiffly.

"No, ma'am. Like I said, it's a gut feeling. I don't know how it is on Minbar, but everyplace I've ever been, terrorists got along fine without any help from Shadows."

"You may well be right," Marcus said. "I've been told of a Human called 'the Hunter' Downbelow. Rabid xenophobe, likes to hurt people. Still trying to learn more"

Sheridan said, "Ivanova, any word from Brother Bernard?"

"Yes, sir—quite a few," she said, with a straight face. "Boiling it down, his system is set up and is being constantly monitored, either by him or by a Brother Aquinas—"

Sheridan's handlink sounded. The instant he answered it, Corwin's voice burst forth: "Emergency, Captain! Total life-support failure all meth sections of the Alien Sector!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Dr. Franklin bolted from the room, overturning his chair**. The rest of the command staff were right behind him, leaving Marcus and Delenn at the deserted council table. They had both sprung to their feet with the others, but, lacking specific posts in the crisis, both hesitated just for a moment.

"I'm going Downbelow," Marcus said.

"Be careful."

"Always," he assured her, and left. Delenn stood alone in the empty council room. _Perhaps this is not the Shadows,_ she thought. _If it were, then perhaps I would know what to do._

**Despite the extra evac drills, half the methane-breathers, mostly Gneissh, either ignored the warning klaxons entirely or panicked**. Human and Narn security officers wasted precious moments clambering into encounter suits to help enforce the evacuation. By the time they reached the affected section, a Vorlon ship had pulled smoothly away from the station; several score of other aliens were fighting to reach escape pods. Many Gneissh had stubbornly stayed in their shops or at their trading boards, ignoring all warnings, until the atmosphere actually started to fail.

A Gneissh merchant writhed where he had fallen at the threshold of his shop, clutching his throat with one hand, clawing at the empty air with the other. Security Officer Zack Allan summoned Dr. Franklin's team the moment he saw it; Franklin and another medic were there almost immediately. Franklin saw at once that the trader was probably past all help. Regardless, he pulled open his kit and began issuing orders. He'd beaten the odds before, and he'd be damned if he gave up this time.

**The command deck was controlled Bedlam.** Sheridan, meeting each crisis as it arose, directed evac teams, repair crews, and outgoing vessels and escape pods. Ivanova relayed and carried out the Captain's orders with her customary cool efficiency. Ten minutes into the crisis a second klaxon sounded and a computer-generated voice intoned, "Warning. Warning. Systems operational failure in all oxygen-atmosphere sectors. Standard evacuation protocols are now in place."

"Damn!" the captain said. "Ivanova—"

"Working on it, sir."

Even on the command deck, they could hear cries of panic breaking out in the distance.

**Chaos reigned Downbelow**. Terrified wails, curses, and shouts almost drowned the klaxons, the constantly repeated evac announcement, the orders of the few remaining Security personnel. Marcus, staying close to the bulkhead, slipped past a crowd of frightened Lurkers, scanning faces for the Hunter's. Over the mêlée, he heard an hysterical voice shriek his name.

Abbie wriggled out of the crowd and ran to him, wide-eyed, white-faced, and trembling. "I didn't know where to go, or what to do—and then I _saw him-!_"

He was swept, simultaneously, with relief that she was all right, chagrin at having forgotten all about her, and an overwhelming need to get her to safety and get on with his mission. _Him_ must mean the Hunter. "Haven't you been through evac drills before?" he snapped.

"Y-yes, but this isn't a drill, it's—"

"Pretend it is," he commanded her. "Know the nearest evac route?"

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

"This way." He led her along the nearest standard evacuation route, retracing some of his steps, annoyed with her for the first time. "There! See that Narn security officer? Go to her. She'll tell you where to go."

"Aren't you coming?" Her voice trembled.

"No. I have a job at times like these. And no, you can't come with me."

The child hesitated. Marcus felt his patience reach the breaking point. "Off with you! And if this happens again, don't waste time! Find a security officer and _get yourself safe_, understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Go on."

He felt compelled to wait until she'd reached the Narn before he could turn away, sternly reminding himself that the child was not his responsibility.

**Twenty minutes after Corwin's first call to Sheridan, the situation appeared to be easing**. Repair crews had re-initialized life support in the Alien Sector and were running diagnostics on the auxiliary power relays. ("As if we don't know how _those_ will come out," Ivanova muttered.) A report came in that all life-support in the O2 sector was functioning normally and always had been; the warning had been a false alarm, and that system too was being examined. Sheridan rubbed the back of his neck to ease the worst headache he'd had in a year. His handlink sounded: Dr. Franklin.

"Captain, if you can be spared, can you suit up and come to the med facility in the methane sector? The Trade Minister wants to speak with you."

"On my way."

Questal and two other Gneissh stood at the head of a bed in the utilitarian infirmary. A figure on the bed was covered by a sheet. Franklin and one of his staff doctors waited nearby, fidgeting a little in their encounter suits.

The Trade Minister stumped forward and flung out a thick hand to indicate Franklin. "This one."

_If he tries to blame Stephen_, Sheridan thought, _I'll shove him out the nearest airlock._

"This one," Questal repeated. "He comes. He comes quickly. He works. When our own healers despair, he works. As though our brother is his brother, he works. For many minutes he attempts what cannot be done. It is a waste."

He turned to the shrouded table and thumped it with his hand. "Our brother stays when he is told to go. He has the chance to live. He chooses to die. For the sake of his trade, he chooses to die. It is waste. To die gains nothing."

Questal went over to Franklin, bringing the hand down heavily on the physician's encounter-suited shoulder. "As though our brother is his brother, he works. It is a waste. We are grateful."

Sheridan chose his words carefully. "I thank you, Trade Minister. I wish we could have done more."

"You cannot make our brother live when he chooses to die. You leave now. We mourn our brother."

"Minister," Sheridan said, with a slight bow.

As they left, the captain clearly heard Dr. Franklin's bitter voice over the suits' comm link. "Grateful. I can't save my damn patient, and they're _grateful_ to me for _wasting my time!_"

Sheridan didn't even try to respond.

**He'd seen nothing, heard nothing, learned nothing.** Worst of all, he'd missed the Hunter. Still, Marcus couldn't blame Abbie for interrupting him. He'd protected her once, after all, and who else did she have to turn to?.

Besides, being a Ranger was like the mining work he'd grown up with, in that the nuggets of information he needed were usually well hidden. The time spent looking was an investment, not a waste. _And that,_ he reminded himself, _is why the Minbari spent months trying to teach me patience._

Now that the All Clear had been announced and Downbelow was returning to what passed there for normalcy, Marcus was making, for the first time, a deliberate effort to find Abbie. He'd never been harsh with her before. Skittish as she was, she might decide she couldn't trust him any more and remove herself from his protection. That would be unacceptable. Not that she was his responsibility, of course, but—

"'Mankind is my business'," he quoted softly to himself. "'The common welfare. Charity; mercy; forbearance.'"

There she was, loitering by the seven-fingered thimblerigger in the bazaar, peering around as though looking for someone. Marcus waved briefly to get her attention. The small triangular face lighted with a smile as he went to her..

"I was afraid you'd be mad at me," she greeted him.

"Same here. Didn't mean to growl at you."

"That's okay," she said, shrugging. "Black Panthers are _supposed_ to growl. And I'm sorry I acted like a baby. It's just, I couldn't find you, or even Bettina—" She tensed then, aware of the slip she'd made, and quickly forestalled his unspoken query. "Just someone I know."

She would flee, he knew, unless he let it drop. Mentally filing away the name "Bettina", he proposed, "Let's get something to eat," offering the bait he was sure she couldn't resist. "I'll tell you exactly what to do during an evac drill. You need to know that."

The silent watcher who had witnessed their conversation withdrew into shadows.

**Brother Bernard and Brother Aquinas had stayed at Bernard's terminal throughout the evacuation of Downbelow**, with Brother Theo's reluctant permission. Aquinas promised Theo faithfully that if a final evac warning were to sound, he would drag Bernard to safety by physical force.

Luckily for both monks, that final warning never sounded. As the crisis progressed, Brother Aquinas became as absorbed as Bernard by the data flickering across the viewscreen. To the background hum of a hard copy being printed, he silently handed data crystals to Bernard to capture the codes. The two cowled figures bent over their work, without speaking, long after the All Clear had sounded.

Deep in the night, Aquinas looked up from his screen to say, "This crystal has been wiped, too."

Brother Bernard, hunched over the thick bundle of printout, nodded briefly. "As we expected."

"It's a very elegant thing," Aquinas mused. He shared with Bernard an appreciation for a well-designed computer program, whatever its purpose.

"A _diabolical_ thing," Bernard corrected him. "Let me study, Brother. We must be sure."

**At almost the same time, elsewhere Downbelow, the Hunter waited in his quarters**. When the chime finally sounded he opened his door at once. A man with dyed black hair and a slightly crooked nose barely had time to enter before the Hunter closed the door. "You're late."

"Couldn't help it," said the other, whose name was Charles Remmick. He shed his brown jacket and dropped it on the back of a chair with an air of bravado.

"Sit," the Hunter ordered, and poured two shots of whiskey. Remmick sat and accepted a glass. Just for a moment he perched at the edge of his chair, then slowly let himself ease back into it. The Hunter sat opposite him and tossed back a swallow. "Well?"

"He met her again tonight. From what they said, they were together during part of the drill."

"Not good," said the Hunter. Remmick, bearer of bad news, contracted further back into his chair and gulped whiskey. The Hunter went on, "She might start telling him things that are none of his business. I think we have to—for God's sake!" he interrupted himself, looking sharply at Remmick.

He lunged forward, seized a handful of Remmick's hair, and jerked it upwards from the scalp. "What the hell is this? If you must dye your hair, then for God's sake _dye_ it. Don't let your damned roots show. The idea is to change your appearance, not call attention to it. Isn't that right?"

Remmick's eyes were watering and he sat up very straight in an effort to ease the strain on his scalp.

"I said, isn't that right?"

"Right." A hoarse whisper.

"Keep it all black, or shave your damned head. Got it?"

"Got it."

After a minute, the Hunter released Remmick's hair and sat back, grinning. "More whiskey, Charlie?"

"Yeah. I mean, please."

The Hunter replenished their drinks, while Remmick tried to rub his head without seeming to rub it. "Getting back to the girl and her guardian angel. There's too much chance she'll talk. Get rid of him."

Remmick looked up from his drink with wide eyes.

"Conscience, Charlie? You didn't have any problem dealing with Becker."

"Easier to get rid of the girl," Remmick ventured.

The Hunter slowly shook his head. "Charlie. See if you can grasp this. If the girl disappears, he starts looking for her. Our problem gets worse. Get him out of the picture, our problem is solved."

"Unless she finds someone else."

"She won't. Not after she learns what happened to him, _and why_." The Hunter smiled. "I'll see to it that she knows."

Remmick unhappily regarded his empty glass. Making no move to refill it, the Hunter demanded, "Now what?"

"He's tough. I heard, even you couldn't—"

"Heard what, Charlie?" The Hunter's voice was soft. "What have you heard?"

The story of his own encounter with Abbie's guardian angel, of course. The Hunter's eyes defied the other to mention it. Under the relentless scrutiny, Remmick began to wilt. "Nothing."

"You have a duty. You have a duty to this station. You have a duty to your oath. Remember that."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Then it's settled." Now the Hunter reached for the whiskey bottle. "Don't worry, Charlie. No one's asking you to take him on in a fair fight."

Pouring liquor, he started to outline his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**This was one of the times Garibaldi hated being proved right**. With the rest of the command staff and Marcus, he sat in Sheridan's office and listened grimly the next morning as Brothers Bernard and Aquinas explained what they had discovered. Brother Aquinas was offering the explanation. Bernard had begun, but yielded the task to Aquinas after five incomprehensible minutes, on Dr. Franklin's terse request to "have it in English".

"Your diagnostics will show no malfunctions," Aquinas was saying. "But our monitoring system recorded new codes being fed into the life-support control grid. Every apparent malfunction of the life-support system was, in fact, the computer's response to a specific command. The system was instructed to disable the auxiliary life supports in the methane section of the Alien Sector, then to shut down the main system. It was also instructed to trigger the alarms in the O2 sectors."

"How do you know all this?" Sheridan asked.

The monk tapped the thick sheaf of paper lying on the captain's desk. "Rather than rely solely on data crystals, we have been making a hard copy of all codes generated by the system. Shortly after the crisis passed, we found that the codes for the commands I've mentioned were being wiped, even on our crystals. They were replaced by standard command codes."

"Which is what our diagnostic techs would pick up," said Ivanova.

"Exactly!" Brother Bernard said, with a scholarly pleasure that she had caught on so quickly. "The common term is, I believe, a computer 'virus'. A very short-lived one, that in this case leaves no trace—bless me, what word am I looking for—"

"Antibodies," Dr. Franklin said tonelessly. "It leaves no traces in the computer's system. Just dead Gneissh."

The monks stared at him. Obviously they hadn't heard about the merchant's death. Crossing himself, Brother Bernard said, "We—were unaware of casualties, Doctor. If you could give us their names, we will remember them in prayer."

"One name. I can find it out for you later this morning. I've been invited to the funeral. It's supposed to be a tremendous honor."

Garibaldi broke the silence that followed. "Brother Bernard, any idea _where_ these new codes were fed into the system?"

"Nothing very useful," Bernard said apologetically. "There is no transmission signature, which clearly indicates that the codes were not downloaded from outside the system. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing."

"In other words," said Sheridan, "these codes weren't transmitted from a ship. They were initiated from somewhere here on the station."

"Exactly. But as to a specific location—" Bernard gestured helplessly.

"Could've been anywhere," said Garibaldi, and both monks nodded assent. "Any operational station, anyone's quarters, any public comm booth."

"Except, presumably, in the methane sectors," Marcus put in.

"Even there," Brother Bernard said. "It may be that those races' capacity for sin equals our own. Captain, we will attempt to create an antiviral program to protect the system, but it may be impossible. This," he tapped the printout, "was created by a genius. Very probably, this person creates an entirely new virus program for each disruption." He sighed. "We seem to have brought you more questions than answers."

"What you've brought us is hard evidence," said Sheridan. "We'll need that. I can't thank you enough for all you've done."

Bernard bowed slightly in acknowledgement. "Doctor, when you learn the victim's name, we will be grateful to receive it."

When the monks had left, Ivanova said, "So we're back where we started—looking for a computer genius somewhere."

"Nope," said Garibaldi. "Now it's worse. Now we're looking for a murderer."

Dr. Franklin got up to leave and said, with uncharacteristic savagery, "Well, when you find the bastard, I hope you throw him into a cell, pump out the air, and let him find out what it's like to suffocate. And I hope I'm there to watch."

**The merchant's funeral took less time than Franklin had needed to don an encounter suit.** Questal spoke for less than a minute in the high-pitched whistles and clicks of the Gneissh language. The dead merchant's trading board was broken in half and the two pieces laid over his distorted face. The lid of the capsule was closed. That was the extent of the ceremony. At the end of it, Franklin approached Questal and asked the dead man's name, explaining that some seekers of God in the O2 sector wished to pray for him.

The Trade Minister pushed at the air with his hand, brushing the question aside. "Our brother's name dies with him. His account has been cast up. He does not need prayers. He needs justice. You tell this to Sheridan: our brother requires justice."

"I understand that, Minister—but—"

Questal brushed at the air again. "Only because of you do we stay. Tell this to Sheridan. You go now. To talk more is waste." He turned his back and stumped away. The capsule containing the body had already been removed; the mourners had left to return to their businesses. Their dead colleague had been remembered, Franklin reflected, and that was that. _I guess more would be "waste"._

**Abbie was guilty as charged, no doubt about it, and she'd never seen Bettina so angry. **"You little thief!" Bettina was shrieking. "Don't try to deny it! You were caught red-handed!"

Shrinking back, wondering if Bettina was actually about to hit her, Abbie found the courage to say, "But it—it's just a piece of soap—"

She'd awakened ravenously hungry this morning, to find that the girls and the customers hadn't left a single crumb—just a lot of empty and broken glasses and overturned chairs. In her desperation she' finally ventured into the girls' sleeping rooms, searching quietly for something to eat while they snored in their beds.

She hadn't found breakfast. But, in the room of the newest girl—the blonde one who for three nights had drunk and disappeared with more customers than any of the others—she'd found a nearly-new cake of soap, pink, creamy-textured, exquisitely scented. She'd only meant to borrow it. Just to wash with it once, to feel clean and sweet-smelling for once. But the girl had wakened just in time to see her slipping the soap into her shirt. The girl had seized Abbie by one skinny arm and dragged her bodily to Bettina. Bettina, as always in the morning, was in a foul mood.

"I was going to put it back," Abbie pleaded. "Honest."

The blonde girl said, "Look, I can find a job anywhere. I don't have to stay where people sneak into your room."

Bettina turned to her, all sweetness. "Now, honey, don't say that. You don't need to say a thing like that. Why, you're one of my favorite girls, don't you know that?." The blonde girl smirked. "The kid, why, I just kept her here out of pure charity, and look what she does!" She rounded on Abbie. "Go on, get out of here! Now! And don't come back! I can't have my best girl all upset," she purred, patting the blonde girl's hand soothingly.

"But—" It wasn't much of a place, but it was someplace. "But—it was just a piece of soap—I'll never do it again—"

"Get out!" Bettina swung her hand back to deliver a cuff, and Abbie fled.

She ran till Bettina's Pleasure Palace was out of sight, then stopped, trembling, almost crazy with hunger. What could she do?

Bettina might change her mind. She might. When she got tired of cleaning the place herself, she might let Abbie stay there again. But how long would that take?

Abbie's empty stomach growled.

"Marcus," she said softly to herself. If she could find him, if he wasn't meeting someone or hurrying off somewhere, he'd buy her breakfast. Lunch, now. And if it came to it, if he was too busy for her, she would even beg him for a credit or two.

If she could find him—

**Since before the meeting—since breakfast, in fact, in the nameless tavern Downbelow, Marcus had known he was being watched.**

The Minbari believed, the entire universe was interconnected, It seemed that one small piece of it was doing its best to connect more intimately with Marcus Cole. The sense of menace had crept up quietly as he finished his tea and had dogged him ever since. A subliminal sort of signal, like a frequency of light or sound just beyond the limits of Human perception. He could not have explained it, but every well-trained instinct warned him. Garibaldi would have called it a gut feeling. It took Marcus as a subtle, almost physical pricking all up and down his spine.

He went about his business in apparent oblivion, all the while watching and listening to his surroundings with redoubled awareness. The tension eased as he left Downbelow for the meeting with the monks and vanished completely the minute he crossed the threshold of Sheridan's office. It was waiting for him in the corridor outside as he left the meeting.

It never occurred to him to mention the threat to Garibaldi. It was too vague to describe, and specific to himself. Whoever or whatever it was, he would wait and confront it. It would show itself soon enough. Marcus was a Ranger, and he could take care of himself.

He set about an aimless routine, testing whether the nemesis would follow. Returning Downbelow, he walked through the bazaar. He stopped in at the Abandon All Hope and sat in for a couple of hands of poker at the game that ran there perpetually, taking the single precaution of sitting with his back to a wall. The prickling sensation never left his spine. Indeed, it had developed into a tingling that raced through his veins and arteries with every heartbeat. He was exhilarated, almost intoxicated, by the proximity of danger, and not at all worried by the fact that despite his vigilance he still hadn't spotted the watcher. Obviously there was a series of watchers, in touch with one another somehow. All he had to do was wait. The danger, whatever it was, would come to him. He won the second hand, accruing a modest hundred credits, decided to accept it as a good omen, and left the table with his winnings. The feeling of menace followed.

_Shy, are we?_ Marcus thought. Whatever his unseen companion wanted, it was obviously unwilling to try for in the open. _Let's see if I can lure you out._

The café where he'd bought Abbie the peaches was in a plaza that lay beyond a web of public passages. Prices there were higher than in the bazaar, the goods on offer somewhat more specialized. In consequence the foot traffic was rather less. Marcus made that his goal, strolling unhurriedly, giving his invisible adversary plenty of time to note his route. It was just past midday. The passage leading to the plaza was nearly deserted.

Down the curving corridor. Alone now, yet not alone. He rounded a corner. He could see the plaza at the end of the passage, past an intersecting corridor.

Here. Now. The place was perfect for an ambush, the threatening sensation almost palpable. Marcus slipped the Minbari _denn'bok_ from his belt to his right hand and strode forward.

A yell rang out to his right as he set foot in the intersection. He glimpsed a whirlwind of action, a loud, overtly distracting fistfight involving five men. Instantly, opening the pike, he whirled counterclockwise to his left, where he knew the real threat must lie.

A staggering blow to the ribs, combined with the force of his own spinning turn, propelled him against the opposite bulkhead of the cross-corridor. Bouncing off the wall, Marcus returned the blow with a lash of his pike, knocking a weapon from his assailant's hand. A second stroke connected solidly with the man's leg. Bone crunched and the man fell, writhing and screaming in pain. Marcus saw his foe's face, and knew it.

No time for the fallen man, The others had abandoned their sham fight and approached him now, advancing along the cross-corridor. Light winked on five drawn blades. The men, wary, started to spread out.

Only five, armed with hand knives, against Ranger training and the longer reach of the _denn'bok_. This fight was winnable, not much more than a training exercise, even though Marcus' left side already throbbed from that first blow.

He attacked first, darting forward, swinging the pike in a move designed to take two opponents at once. It was then the pain struck, like a red-hot iron laid along his ribs. He bit back a cry as he retreated a step or two, wheeling to one side to face another assailant.

Something wrong, something very wrong here. A split-second of difficulty regaining his balance. The pain was worse. He felt the first warm flow of what he knew must be blood.

The weapon he'd knocked from the first assassin's hand must have been a knife.

Marcus parried another knife-thrust, spun to ward off a man who'd just slipped behind him. Rapidly, he assessed his situation. No taste of blood in his mouth. He took that to mean the lung hadn't been touched. He knew he could fight through pain. A matter of endurance, then, of staying in the battle until he could draw it into the plaza, gambling that they wouldn't follow him into the open.

If he could endure.

The _denn'bok_ is a two-handed weapon. Against one opponent, or two, Marcus might have maneuvered to spare his injured side. Against five, he must put full power behind each attack, every defensive sweep. Another assailant rushed from his right. Marcus aimed a blow with killing force. It fell just short. The pain in his ribs redoubled, and the blood flowed faster.

Two more parries, a quick retreat of a pace or two. The five circled him, a pack of predators, sensing his distress, waiting to exploit it. His blood was flowing freely now, and every movement seemed to make it worse. The pack circled. Marcus couldn't afford to wait.

With a succession of hard, rapid jabs, behind, before, to the left, he attacked three of them at once. The man behind him doubled over and buckled to the floor. Marcus side-stepped around him, drawing back, luring the pack a meter or so closer to the plaza. The four still on their feet ignored their fallen comrade, as they had ignored the first assassin, who still lay moaning, clutching at his broken kneecap. The pack focused only on its prey.

That onslaught had cost Marcus more than it had the pack. Blood was soaking his tunic now, spilling down. Pain knifed through him with every breath. His attackers momentarily blurred in his sight. He drew a deep, deliberate lungful of air, using the pain to feed the battle-rage that was his most potent weapon now.

_I will not die here. I will not die for nothing._

The pack moved in, sure of him now. A quick-flashing blade caught Marcus across his right forearm. The _denn'bok_ whistled through the air, crashed against the assailant's temple, and the man fell. Struggling to keep his balance, Marcus retreated across the cross-corridor and put his back against the wall of the main one. He could hear the clamor of voices now from the plaza.

The wall offered support and defense as the three advanced, moving quickly, determined to finish their work. Marcus gave way before them, parrying each movement of their blades, edging along the wall toward safety. A scarlet trail spattered on the floor, marking his progress.

His eyes on the pack, Marcus felt rather than saw the archway opening onto the plaza. His enemies hesitated for an instant. _I was right,_ he thought, _they'll stay hidden._ Drive them back just once more—

With a wild Minbari battle cry, he mounted a final attack, aiming for their faces, then stumbled backward into the plaza. Dizzy with pain and loss of blood, he blundered into a display stand outside a potter's shop. It crashed to the floor. Pieces of glazed porcelain burst in every direction.

Marcus stumbled, almost fell, and planted the tip of the pike against the floor to catch himself. Leaning hard on the weapon, he clamped his right hand over his injured left side. His tunic was sodden. He pressed as hard as he could against the wound.

A woman emerged from the shop, yelling, "Stop it! You hoodlums, stop it! I've already called Security!"

"Thank you," Marcus gasped, raising his head to look at her. She had a pug nose and a missing tooth. Her face and clothes were smeared with clay, and her hair boasted the color and texture of straw. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

"_Thank_ me! Well, I never—you're hurt," she noted, her eyes going wide.

Perceptive, too. "If you could—call a medic," he requested.

The woman stared at the blood pattering down at his feet. Her face went greenish-white. She clapped a hand to her mouth, and fled back into the shop.

Marcus hoped she'd call a medic first and be sick afterwards. He was incapable of further exertion; it was all he could do to stay on his feet, clutching the pike for support. Pity about the display . . . . The sea of colorful shards blurred and wavered around him.

"Here." The woman was back, white to the gills, a clean towel in her hand. "Here—you'll have to take it, I'm sorry, blood just makes me sick."

"Thanks," he whispered, making no move to take the towel, not daring to let up the pressure now.

"It's just that—blood makes me sick—" she repeated.

"Of course," he reassured her, moved by an obscure compulsion to courtesy, no longer sure what they were talking about. He felt caught up in a bizarre nightmare.

Then a familiar, much-welcome voice pulled him back to reality: Garibaldi's voice, demanding, "Marcus? What the hell's going on here?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Garibaldi, with Zack Allan and another security officer, Heckman, had been investigating a day-old burglary near the plaza Downbelow when the report came of a fight in the plaza itself.** He'd hurried to answer the call, planning to squelch any trouble before it got serious. To his surprised and annoyance, he'd walked almost the whole length of the place without finding a fight. Then he spotted the overturned display, the mess of broken pottery, and Marcus, swaying against his staff, standing in the middle of it. The security chief hurried forward, crunching potsherds underfoot. "Marcus? What the hell's going on here?"

Marcus looked up at him, ashen, and with a slight movement of his head indicated an archway. "Down there," he said, speaking distinctly with an obvious effort. "Five of them. Six. Think I got—one or two."

Heckman unslung her sidearm and went to investigate. Zack Allan had already linked through to Medlab and was calling for an emergency trauma team.

The woman who stood nearby, proffering a towel, said, "I've already called medics."

"Thanks." Garibaldi reached out to grab the towel, kicked broken bits of pottery aside, and put a supportive arm around Marcus' shoulders. The fighting pike slipped from its owner's hand and clattered to the floor as Marcus slumped against the security chief. Lowering him to the floor, Garibaldi said, "Zack! Make sure Heckman's okay, then keep an eye peeled for that trauma team."

"You got it, Chief."

Marcus had curled onto his left side, shoulders hunched, shielding the wound. Garibaldi knelt beside him and eased him onto his back. "Hunter," Marcus was saying. "The Hunter."

"It's okay. We're on it," Garibaldi reassured him loudly. "Lemme see what we've got here." He pried Marcus' bloody hand away and pressed the towel down hard over the wound. Footsteps retreated as the donor of the towel, retching, scurried back into her shop.

More footsteps: Zack, reporting, "Nobody down there, just a lot of blood. Heckman's checking the area." Blood was soaking into the towel. Garibaldi pressed it down harder. Marcus shuddered with pain and bit his lip.

"Quit being such a damned hero," Garibaldi said. "Yell if you need to."

Above his head, Zack's voice yelled, "Over here!" Then Dr. Franklin was there, sweeping aside potsherds to kneel by Garibaldi at Marcus' side, opening his kit. "What happened?"

"Knife," Marcus said.

"Let up on this just a little," Franklin directed Garibaldi, who obeyed. The doctor cautiously rolled back an edge of the towel. Then, muttering "_Dammit!"_ he quickly pressed it back down as hard as he could, putting all the power of his upper body into the effort. Marcus stiffened. An anguished cry escaped him.

A split-second later a small, shabby whirlwind collided violently with Franklin, a pair of bony fists was trying to push him back, and a child's voice shrieked, "Leave him _alone! _Leave him _alone!_ You're _hurting_ him!" Before even Garibaldi could react, Marcus reached up to grasp at one of the whirlwind's flailing arms. "Abbie," he said, as firmly as he could. At his touch, and the sound of his voice, the child froze and turned to look at him.

"Abbie. It's all right. Dr. Franklin. Here to help me."

She lowered her fists; tears were beginning to brim. "You're _bleeding_." Franklin, bent forward, redoubled the pressure on the towel.

Marcus tried to smile. "Looks worse—than it is. Just—making a fuss. Be all right. Promise." He released her arm, brushed clumsily at the tears on her face. His hand dropped as his eyes began to close. "Someone—get her something to eat."

A glance passed between Zack and Garibaldi, and Zack said, "Sure," taking the child by her skinny shoulders and pulling her to her feet. "C'mon, honey."

Abbie tore her eyes away from Marcus to look up at him. She stared a moment at his face. Her eyes widened; then she wrenched herself free. "I'm not hungry!" She backed away, turned, and fled.

Zack's puzzled eyes met Garibaldi's. "What'd I say?"

"Forget it," said the security chief, hearing the rattle of the gurney as the trauma team arrived at last. "First things first."

**Abbie ran down the nearest corridor, past a kneeling security officer and a trail of blood**. Tears had started streaking down her face.

_I want to go home. I want to go home._

But she didn't have a home. She didn't even have Bettina's any more. She had nowhere to go, and, now, no one to turn to. She shivered, remembering the Nightwatch man's grip on her shoulders. Even though he wasn't the main one, not the one from her nightmares, he'd been there That Night. The sight of his face brought all the horror back.

"I want to go home," she said under her breath, to herself since no one else cared. "I want my papa—"

Papa was already dead when someone came to fetch her, but the pool of blood hadn't begun to congeal. No one had called a doctor, because it was too late. Someone had pulled her off the cooling body and said, "We'll take care of it." She never saw Papa's body again—she never knew what they did with him. Bettina had said, "I can use the kid," and taken her away.

If she'd reached him sooner, Papa might have still been alive—she would have made somebody call a doctor—she would have saved him—

Abbie threaded her way into the bazaar. After some careful watching, she swiped an apple from a fruit stall. Stealing was wrong, she knew that, but she was too hungry to care. The apple was mushy and flavorless, with two large brown bad spots. She munched it down, core, seeds, and all, and felt a little better.

Marcus was still alive, she reminded herself. _Marcus was still alive. _He'd recognized her, touched her, spoken to her. He'd promised her he'd be all right.

Of course, she knew what promises were worth: nothing. Even this one. He couldn't have known how badly he was hurt. He'd just wanted her to stop acting like a baby.

But there had been a doctor right there. So maybe—

She had to know.

**Marcus floated up from a warm, embracing darkness to hear Stephen's voice speaking his name**. He must have made some response, because the voice went on to explain that he'd come through it fine and was going to be all right.

He swallowed twice and was able to whisper, "Come through what?"

"Just a little surgery to stop the bleeding. You're going to be fine. Go to sleep."

"I _was_ asleep," Marcus replied crossly, and waited to sink back into the comfortable darkness. He couldn't. Something held him near the surface of consciousness, some bothersome thought. Slowly, it crystallized.

_I have to find her._

He had to find her before he could rest. His numbed mind accepted the dictum without even asking who "she" was, and he tried to obey.

But he couldn't get his eyes to stay open, and when he tried to sit up pain darted mercilessly at his left side. Unseen hands, gentle but firm, laid him back down. Voices urged him to rest, to relax, to go back to sleep. He wanted to sleep, he craved sleep, but he couldn't, not until he had found her.

He lay still long enough to recruit his strength, then tried again, with greater determination but no better success. A third attempt failed, and a fourth.

Stephen's voice again, very distant now: "No, no restraints, he'll try to fight them. Better start a sedative drip." Another voice responded, "Yes, Doctor." Warmth flowed into his right hand, flooded his whole body, and Marcus was released, back down into the restful night.

**Garibaldi tossed the transparent evidence pouch onto Sheridan's desk, where it landed with a metallic thump.** "My best guess is, Marcus was on to something and someone tried to shut him up."

Sheridan turned the pouch over in his hands. "With this."

"With that. Heckman found it in a passage near the plaza. Three clear prints on the handle, we're running 'em now. The blood on the blade is Marcus'. DNA matches right down to the last marker."

Ivanova, eyeing the knife with distaste, asked, "Was he able to tell you anything?"

"Not very much. He said there were five or six of 'em, and that he thought he'd got one or two. We didn't find anything, except the knife and some blood in the corridor. They must've taken their casualties with 'em. I've got every dispensary and aid station aboard looking out for blunt-force trauma injuries from that Minbari shillelagh. Another thing" Garibaldi added. "He mentioned the Hunter."

"The 'rabid xenophobe' who 'likes to hurt people'," Ivanova recalled.

"That's it. He mentioned the name, nothing more. He was having trouble talking. But he knew what he was saying."

Sheridan asked, "How soon can you talk to him again?"

"Franklin says tomorrow morning at the earliest. He'll pull through, but it was touch and go for awhile." Garibaldi picked up the evidence pouch and contemplated it for a moment. "I wonder if there's some way to let the kid know."

"Kid?" Ivanova asked.

"It was the damnedest thing. This little kid comes busting out of nowhere—" Briefly, he recounted the incident, concluding, "She spooked for some reason, ran off like a rabbit. I kind of wish I could tell her he'll be okay. She was really scared for him."

"Marcus makes some interesting friends," Ivanova commented.

Sheridan said, "Let's hope we can get a handle on his enemies."

**It was like going backwards through time to the person she had been before That Night;** back to the bright little girl, her father's darling, who'd been encouraged to think things out for herself when she had a problem. She had to use her mind now and figure this out.

The first thing she realized was that, in order to find out about Marcus, she would have to leave Downbelow. Nobody here was going to help her. And there was no place she knew of Downbelow for anyone who was really sick or hurt.

So, for the first time since That Night, she crept onto the station shuttle and ventured back to the Zocalo. She'd forgotten how clean and orderly the main station was, and at first she had trouble finding her way. Then, one by one, familiar landmarks presented themselves. A Minbari restaurant with patrons sedately entering and leaving. Lindbergh's—she'd never been inside, but Papa had been fond of the place. The interstellar comm service, where a pair of gaudily-dressed Centauri males fidgeted in line behind a Drazi who was debating transmission rates with the clerk.

She almost expected to see Becker's Books in its old place, but in fact she passed the site twice before realizing that the fire-gutted space had risen from its ashes, like a phoenix, and been transformed into an Elegant Apparel Shoppe. Where her father had stacked ziggurats of books and vids, silk gowns and formal coats were now displayed under subdued lights The words, "For All Special Occasions", etched in gold on the show window, had replaced Papa's handmade sign "All the News From Home!" . A woman leaving the shop, carrying a shiny box, frowned her disapproval at Abbie's dirty hair and badly-fitting clothes.

She was so heartsore that was almost ready to give up. But then, moving away from what had once been her home, she saw a station directory. She hurried over to it.

It took her some time to figure it out, and then more time to locate what she wanted: Medlab. When she and Papa had first come aboard the station, he'd taken her to Medlab for vaccinations, so she knew that was where the doctors were.

There were several Medlabs. Abbie stood gnawing her fingernails, studying the station diagram and trying to decide which one was closest to the plaza Downbelow. The puzzle was beyond her. At last, however, in a sidebar listing key station personnel, she found the name "Franklin, Dr. Stephen, chief medical officer". _Dr. Franklin. Here to_ _help me._

Dr. Franklin worked in Medlab One. She would start there.

Once she'd found the place, she lingered outside. Should she ask someone for help? No. They'd certainly just send her away. It wasn't as though she was family or had any real right to ask about him. She didn't even know his last name.

So she waited until no one seemed to be looking, entered Medlab stealthily, and hid at once behind a desk.

Keeping perfectly still, then moving from one hiding place to another as circumstances offered, she began her search. Patients in Medlab, she quickly realized, were housed in small individual cubicles, and each cubicle had a large round window through which you could instantly see the bed and its occupant. She would just keep going from cubicle to cubicle. It was just like stealing food Downbelow—stillness and patience.

Sooner than she had dared hope, she found him.

At her first sight of him, she went cold all over; he lay so utterly still. For an agonizing minute she had to wait for the way to clear before she could slip into the cubicle and approach the bed.

Marcus lay on his back, his right hand limp outside the covers. A pouch half full of clear liquid hung from a bracket, connected to a vein in his hand by a thin transparent tube into which the liquid slowly dripped. Abbie crouched low and crept closer, weak with relief at the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Glancing through the round window to be sure no one was looking, she slipped right up beside him and whispered his name. There was no response.

Timidly, she touched his hand and tried again. Nothing, not so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Even when she shook his arm, gently, fearful of hurting him, and spoke softly right into his ear—nothing.

If she hadn't been so afraid of being caught, she would have screamed in frustration and fear. Why couldn't she wake him? What was wrong? Should she risk being thrown out by finding a doctor and telling them? If she _didn't_ find someone and tell them, then what? Would Marcus die? Racked by indecision, she stood immobile. Then she heard footsteps, coming close.

Someone was coming. There was no time to run, and only one place to hide: down under the bed itself. Abbie dove for cover and huddled up into the tightest, most compact bundle she could. The footsteps came into the room.

Dr. Franklin entered Marcus' room half-expecting to see a nurse or technician; he'd had a momentary impression that someone was moving about in here, but obviously he was mistaken. Marcus slept peacefully, as he would for hours yet until the drug wore off. With a practiced glance at the monitors, Franklin stepped forward to re-check his patient.

The slightest hint of a noise caught his ear. He wasn't sure, but it sounded almost like the hiss of a quick, indrawn breath, and it came from somewhere down around his knees. From _under_ the bed—?

Franklin crouched down to look, and found himself looking into the most terrified pair of Human eyes he had ever seen. Wide, hazel eyes, pupils dilated with fear, set in a too-thin childish face that he recognized.

"I know you," he said. The child was beginning to tremble. Franklin kept his voice matter-of-fact. "You're the little girl from Downbelow. What did he call you? 'Addie', was it?"

"Abbie." A barely audible whisper.

"Abbie," he corrected himself. "Got a last name?"

"Becker." The pleading hazel eyes never left his face. She swallowed convulsively and blurted out, "I didn't do anything—I didn't touch anything, honest!"

"Of course not." Franklin straightened up and beckoned her forward. "Come on out. Tell me about it."

The child obeyed, creeping out from her hiding place and cringing into the chair he indicated. "I only—I had to see how Marcus was."

"I see," Franklin said, looking her over with a quick, clinical glance that took in every sign of malnutrition and neglect. "Does anyone know you're here?" he asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

She squirmed in the chair. "There isn't anybody. I don't have anybody." She looked over at Marcus, then back to the doctor, and abruptly demanded, "Is he going to die?"

"Die? No, absolutely not," he replied. The vehemence of her question and the anguish in her face surprised and disturbed him. Who was this kid, anyway? "It was a little rocky at first, but there's no danger now. Here. Let me show you. Come on, it's okay." He motioned her to the monitors. Abbie slid from the chair and approached warily. Calmly, as though he found stray waifs huddled under his patients' beds every day, Franklin explained in simple terms what each monitor was and what the readings meant. He wasn't sure how much of the specifics she absorbed. What really mattered was that, as he talked, the girl stopped trembling; her breathing slowed and she became visibly calmer, studying the monitors. And he was sure she got the gist of it: that, once the bleeding was controlled, Marcus had responded to treatment and was doing well, better in fact than Franklin had expected.

When Franklin had finished, the child hesitated, chewing on a thumbnail. Finally she said, "Then—then why won't he wake up?"

"I don't want him awake just yet. He needs a lot of rest now, so I gave him some medicine to help him sleep."

"Is that what that is?" She was pointing to the IV. Curiosity, he noted, and an intelligent question.

"No, that's called a glucose solution. That's to give him fluids and some nutrition. Tomorrow he'll be awake. He'll be able to eat and drink, and he won't need it any more."

For the first time, a glimmer of a smile appeared on her face. Then, abruptly, it vanished. The fear returned to her eyes as she looked up at Franklin. "Back there—Downbelow—I'm sorry I—I mean, I thought you were trying to—" she stammered.

"Hey, it's okay. You didn't understand, that's all," he soothed her. He could well imagine what acts of violence she'd probably seen Downbelow. "Actually, it was pretty brave of you."

Once again, she relaxed. "Well, he's my friend."

"Mine, too," Franklin said, looking down at her thoughtfully. _And why, my friend, didn't you tell me about this kid?_

Abbie returned to Marcus' bedside, reached out as though to touch his hand, then withdrew. "Can I—can I come back tomorrow?"

The doctor had already begun making his plans for her. "I have a better idea," he said. "See what you think of this."

**Late that night, every door in the O2 sectors of the station abruptly closed and locked.** The duty officer in C and C, following the new standard orders regarding sudden systems disruptions, notified Ivanova at once. By the time she reached the command deck, using manual overrides, the problem was already resolving itself.

Chagrined, the duty officer said, "I'm sorry, Commander. It looks like I woke you up for nothing."

"No, you did the right thing," Ivanova reassured him. "This is weird, though. It seems just like all the other problems, but it's fixing itself."

The duty officer grinned wryly and said, "Maybe the computer's just having a temper tantrum."

Brother Bernard, poring eagerly over his latest printouts Downbelow, would have agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Marcus opened his eyes in the dimness of early morning. **_Medlab_, he thought, remembering having heard Franklin's voice. For a moment he lay quietly, savoring his survival. Fragmented memories of the events that had brought him here circled randomly through his mind. There had been a fight, and knives, and a tremendous pain in his left side.

The side was heavily bandaged now, but he felt little pain, even when he made the experiment of taking a deep breath. More than survival, then; he was already beginning to heal. There was another bandage on his right arm, he discovered. Shifting onto his right side and pushing himself up, he found he could, somewhat shakily, sit up. Better still.

"Lights up, please," he said, and the illumination in the room obligingly increased. Marcus looked around, wondering what time it was. He was about to ask the computer when Dr. Franklin entered the room. "Good morning," said the doctor, with a brief smile.

"What time is it?"

"Just about 0600. You've been here since yesterday afternoon. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, actually. A bit muzzy. Did you drug me or something?"

"I usually drug my patients before I operate," Franklin replied dryly. "Lie down. It's time to pull that IV and change the dressing."

Marcus obeyed. Franklin removed the intravenous needle so skillfully that he hardly felt it, then helped him turn onto his right side.

Removing adhesive strips, Franklin said, "What you've got here is one pretty deep, clean gash, and considerable muscle tearing. I had to do some repair work. If you rest and don't strain it, everything should heal completely. It looks like someone tried to stab you, and missed. You got lucky."

"Not luck," Marcus replied. "Training. I knew someone was there, and I turned. Got it in the side instead of the back"

"Sounds like you remember what happened."

"Some of it."

"Garibaldi's going to want a statement. Are you up to it?—This might hurt a little."

Through the pain of the dressing being peeled away, Marcus said, "It's coming back. Like a jigsaw puzzle. In bits, but it's all there. I'll remember."

"Okay. Hold still. Almost done." Franklin finished his work and went on, "Figure on spending the next few days here in Medlab. I've already told Delenn and the captain that you're off duty for the next three weeks, or until I clear you."

"Three weeks," scoffed Marcus, easing onto his back. "Not likely!"

"Don't push it," Franklin warned him. "You're out of the woods now, but you damn near bled to death yesterday. That wound can still reopen if you get too cocky, and you could wind up in serious trouble. This once, try doing what you're told."

Marcus nodded, acquiescing. Still bathed in the triumph of having survived, he found the prospect of lying comfortably still for awhile very appealing. "Haven't lived this long by being a fool, Stephen. I do know the meaning of discipline."

"Glad to hear it. Comfortable?"

"Pretty much."

"Good. Then I think you're ready to hear this. I had dinner with your little girlfriend last night."

"Girlfriend," Marcus repeated, completely bewildered. All at once, realization dawned. His complacence burst like a bubble and he pushed himself up, exclaiming, "You don't mean _Abbie?_ She's here in Medlab? Why? What's wrong?"

"Take it easy! She's fine, she's fine. Nothing's wrong. She came up last night. She was scared to death about you."

For a moment, Marcus simply stared at the doctor. More pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together. "Good God, that's right. She was there yesterday.—She came all the way here? From _Downbelow_?"

"That's right."

"But I don't remember—"

"You were unconscious. I found her hiding under the bed."

More shaken by this revelation than by his own brush with death, Marcus slowly lay back down. Franklin continued, "After I managed to convince her you weren't on your deathbed, I had dinner with her. Never saw a kid eat like that in my life. Then I turned her over to Dr. Hobbes for a bath and bed. I thought the situation needed a woman's touch. Can you believe it, she was afraid of Dr. Hobbes?"

"I believe it. She'd be afraid of Father Christmas," Marcus replied. "But she's all right?"

The question seemed innocuous enough. But, remembering the terrified eyes in the starveling face, Franklin snapped back, "That depends on what you call 'all right'. I can't remember the last time I saw a child so badly neglected. For God's sake, Marcus, how long have you known about this kid?"

"About a week or so." Stung by the doctor's accusatory tone, Marcus sat up again, more slowly, looking Franklin in the face. "I rescued her from a child molester, and I've made sure she's had a meal every time we've met since. Was that what you meant by 'neglect'?"

"I didn't mean you, personally. But you should have told me—"

"Told you what?" Marcus was in battle again, under attack on two fronts: Franklin's indignation, and the lash of his own conscience. _Someone should do something._ How often he had thought it; how little, looking back, he seemed to have done. And yet— "Told you what?" he demanded again. "Why? Do you have any idea how fragile she is? I've had the devil's own time getting her to trust me. She won't tell me yet where she sleeps nights, or how she lives. I can only go so far with her before she panics and runs off. I've had to deal with her at her pace, on her terms, in order to protect her at all. But no, I should've just come straight to you—'Here, Stephen, fix it'!"

Since that was almost exactly what Franklin had been thinking, the counterattack struck home. "All right! I admit she's, well, skittish—"

"No parents," Marcus went on hotly, his voice rising. "No friends. No one in the world with the least obligation to her. Try to get close enough to really help, and she's off like a bird! Tell me how to fix that, Stephen!" he demanded. "What exactly do you propose be done with the child?" His eyes blazed, and he was beginning to shake.

Franklin was taken completely aback. He'd been so consumed by his own concern, it hadn't occurred to him that Marcus' emotional commitment might run as deep as Abbie's. Quietly, he said, "You're right. I didn't realize—"

"Too bloody right you 'didn't realize'!"

"I said you were right," the doctor reminded him, still speaking with deliberate calm. "It's not an easy situation. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I apologize." Franklin stuck his hands in his pockets. "Cut me a little slack here, Marcus. Something about that kid got to me, I guess."

Some of Marcus' fire died down, and his reply was subdued. "It's the eyes. Or that peculiar combination of vulnerability and bravado."

"The eyes," Franklin said decidedly. "Are you okay? Some doctor I am. I should throw myself out of here for getting you so worked up."

"That would be interesting to watch," the patient responded, with the beginnings of a smile.

"And you're right about Abbie, she's hard to approach. Last night, over dinner? The only way I could get her to open up was to start her talking about you."

"Good God." The smile faded. Marcus looked like a schoolboy caught passing a love note in class.

Franklin continued, thoughtfully, "Coming up here to see you, now that represents a real breakthrough. Maybe she'll be more ready to let us help her."

"As soon as we can figure out how." This time Marcus' tone was light, almost playful. "When can I see her?"

"As soon as she's up. You two can have breakfast together."

"I can at least get out of bed, can't I?"

"Okay, you can try sitting up in a chair. But don't get up alone. Tell you what, I'll go check on Abbie, and send someone in to help you."

Marcus' buoyant mood was completely restored, and, at least for now, he was prepared to do as he was told. _Breakfast,_ he thought as Franklin left the room, _that's the one meal we haven't shared so far._ He had no appetite himself, but what a joy it would be to watch Abbie eat, to hear her odyssey and to praise her courage. All the way to Medlab from Downbelow . . . .

A nurse came in, helped him into a robe and slippers, and had him lean on her as he negotiated the few steps from his bed to the chair. He was, admittedly, a little unsteady, but on the whole the transition was not so very difficult. It was important that Abbie see that he really was all right and that she needn't worry. The nurse insisted on putting his left arm in a sling—Franklin's orders, she said, to keep him from using it too much and risking more stress on the injured muscles in his side. Marcus accepted the sling and the restriction with only a token protest. Now he was set; a little weary, perhaps, not quite comfortable, but more than ready to greet and reassure Abbie.

Twenty minutes later, Franklin came in, unsmiling, to tell him that Abbie had risen early, requested and eaten her breakfast, and was not to be found anywhere in Medlab.

**The ornamental fountain made one particular corner of the Garden a favorite locale for Delenn's morning meditation**. The sound and scent of its splashing water evoked serenity, inviting the contemplative mind and spirit to temporarily abandon distractions and anxieties.

Delenn found the weight of her responsibilities almost unendurable at times. The Shadow threat, looming larger every day. Trying to maintain the fragile alliance she'd constructed of Minbari, Humans, Vorlons, and Narn. The recent, inexplicable systems sabotage on the station—not her own responsibility, perhaps, but they caused her great unease, demonstrating once again how readily members of these younger races turned to destruction.

Now Humans, others of his own kind, had tried to kill Marcus, Denlenn's Minbari soul recoiled at the mere idea. Not only was the alliance itself unstable, so also were its constituent races. When beings would turn against their own, what hope could there be of their uniting effectively against the coming Darkness?

And yet there must be hope, if one sought it hard enough. Delenn sought, and found it, in daily meditation, the continual nurturing of the soul. It was the only way she could maintain the serenity necessary to live and function.

She had risen early to come to the fountain, assuming that at this hour it would be deserted. Certainly she had not expected to see a Human child there, unattended, sitting alone on the rim of the fountain. The little one's face was mournful, and she sat huddled in a posture of absolute despair. At the sound of Delenn's footstep the child looked up warily, then turned her face away and moved a little, half turning her back on Delenn.

Such sadness, in one so young. In her warmest, most cordial voice, Delenn asked, "Are you all right, little one? Do you need some help?"

"I'm fine. Thank you." The girl's voice was stiff, and she didn't turn to look at Delenn. "I can take care of myself."

Delenn seated herself on a bench and said nothing more. Perhaps, when the child was a little used to her presence, she would respond. Perhaps, like Delenn, she simply needed some time to herself. Delenn folded her hands in her lap and focused her mind on the play of water in the fountain.

A few minutes later the child stirred, slipped off the rim of the fountain, and left without a word or a glance in Delenn's direction. Her thin shoulders were slumped as though she carried an invisible burden on her small back.

Serenity eluded Delenn this morning. She finally departed the Garden, her heart nearly as leaden as when she had arrived.

**"Done it again, has she?"** Marcus was taking the news of Abbie's disappearance more calmly than Franklin could have hoped. "It doesn't make sense. Something must have set her off, but what?"

"I don't know," Franklin said. "The nurse said she was fine when she woke up. She was looking forward to seeing you. That was maybe forty-five minutes or an hour ago."

"Probably back Downbelow by now." Marcus frowned. He felt an inexplicable unease at the thought. Instinctive, inarticulate, like the knowledge he'd had yesterday of his own danger. "There are two or three places I know she might go. It would be a start."

Franklin said gently, "I don't think we can ask Security to spend much time looking for her."

"Of course not," Marcus agreed at once, momentarily raising the doctor's hopes that he was going to be reasonable. "They wouldn't know where to start. Even if they did find her, she'd just hide." He braced himself against the chair arm with his right hand and got to his feet. "Where are my clothes?"

"Forget it," Franklin said. "Most of your uniform didn't survive the attack, and in any case, you're not going anywhere."

"She is down there, alone—"

"And a damn sight safer there than you'd be right now. Marcus, somebody Downbelow wants you _dead_. I plan to keep you alive. You're staying right here. End of discussion."

"I can manage," Marcus began to protest, when suddenly the room began to sway, rocking beneath his feet like the deck of a ship. Every ounce of strength abruptly drained from his body, and all at once his lungs couldn't find enough air. He staggered and nearly fell. Then Dr. Franklin was lowering him back into the chair, saying "Easy, there. Lean forward. Breathe deep. That's right." Marcus breathed deep, at least as deeply as he could; his wound was giving him more pain now than it had when he'd first wakened. In a few moments, he felt steadier.

"Convinced?" Franklin asked. Marcus could only nod weakly. Not until he was once more flat on his back in bed did the room become completely stationary again. He felt like a fool; even worse, he felt like an invalid. Franklin hovered annoyingly at the bedside, busy with his scanners and monitors.

"No harm done," the doctor said. "Get some rest now. Give yourself a chance to heal."

"Can you give Mr. Garibaldi a call? If he wants a statement, I'm ready to give it."

"And to ask him to look for Abbie."

"Better than nothing."

"I'll call him," the doctor promised. "She might come back here, you know. When she gets over whatever frightened her, I'll bet she'll come back to see you. At least we know she had breakfast."

Marcus tried to find comfort in that. Instead, an odd, hazy sort of half-memory came back to him: Abbie's voice, crying out, "I'm not hungry!" Surely he had never actually heard her say such a thing? Yet the dim impression remained, fueling the sense, the definite but inexpressible knowledge, that the child was in danger.

When his own breakfast was brought to him, he forced himself to eat, although he was completely without appetite. He had to get his strength back as quickly as possible, and he couldn't do that fasting. He managed to get about a third of it down before the thought of a single additional mouthful began to make him queasy. Drowsy after the meal, he slept briefly, only to be wakened by vague dreams in which flashing knives, hostile faces, and splashes of bright blood mingled, inexplicably, with the crash of china breaking.

It was a relief when Garibaldi came in, carrying a clipboard and saying breezily, "I don't have enough to do, so you start breakin' up housekeeping Downbelow? How you doing?"

"All right, thanks."

Garibaldi hooked one foot around a chair leg, moved the chair to face the bed, and plunked himself down, clipboard and stylus at the ready. "So. What happened?"

Marcus began, haltingly, describing each piece of the puzzle as it came to him. The corridor. The knowledge that he was being watched. The first would-be assassin—as the well-remembered face came into focus in his mind, Marcus broke off the thread of his narrative to say, "The Hunter."

Garibaldi looked up from his clipboard. This was what he had been waiting for since yesterday. All yesterday evening, last night, and part of this morning, he'd pondered over possible connections between the systems failures and the attack on Marcus, and his thoughts had circled back again and again to the mysterious Hunter. "What about the Hunter?" he asked. "Was he there?"

"No, not him. The man who tried to stab me. He'd been pointed out to me as a connection of the Hunter's."

"Can you give me a description?"

Marcus could, and did, in great detail: height, weight, the round eyes, the asymmetrical nose, the freshly-shaved scalp. The security chief took it all down, realizing that Marcus must have been trailing and observing this man for some time prior to the assault.

There was no need for Garibaldi to ask further questions; Marcus continued the story on his own, detailing what little he'd had time to observe about the other five combatants. He was reasonably sure he had disabled one or two of them, and certain that he'd broken the leg of the Hunter's associate. "They all got away, though, didn't they?" he asked. "Otherwise you wouldn't be asking for all this."

Garibaldi admitted, "We haven't got any of 'em yet. The minute one of 'em reports to an aid station, we will.

"You might be interested in what happened last night," he went on. "A minor-league systems glitch, just jammed doors. But the monks were at the captain's door first thing this morning, all excited. Bernard said—well, the way Aquinas translated it, Bernard says if you read enough computer programs written by the same guy, you get to know how that guy thinks. And it looks to them like our saboteur had a temper tantrum. Like he was mad as hell over something and had to kick the cat." Garibaldi waited for a reaction.

"And?" prompted Marcus, unsure why Garibaldi was telling him this.

"Like he'd ordered a hit and it didn't come off," the security chief clarified. "Like his hit man got a busted leg out of the deal. This Hunter connection looks solid. You ever see the guy? Close enough to describe him?"

"Yes," Marcus answered slowly, shifting uncomfortably in bed and reluctantly summoning the detestable face to his mind. "But this connection may not be as solid as you think. The 'tantrum' may be a coincidence. It happens that the Hunter has a grudge against me personally, because of Abbie."

"The little kid from yesterday? Yeah, Franklin was telling me she'd come up here. What's she got to do with this Hunter person?"

"He had her trapped against a wall. He was about to molest her. I pulled him off. Made rather a spectacle of it. That's how I met them both." Marcus glanced through the window by his bed. The edge of the door leading from Medlab to the free world beyond was just within his line of sight. So close; a few seconds away under normal circumstances, an impassable barrier to him now. And she was somewhere beyond that door, alone, undefended, frightened—of what?—with the Hunter still free to roam Downbelow. If the Hunter _were_ the saboteur—if he was still looking for a cat to kick . . .

At a light touch on his shoulder, Marcus came back to himself to find Garibaldi standing by the bed looking down at him. Garibaldi said, "Are you okay? This can wait."

"I'm fine. Just wandering for a minute. Sorry."

"Okay. I still need that description, if you're up to it."

Marcus complied, Garibaldi taking swift notes, nodding with satisfaction. "Two good descriptions, physical evidence—we got the knife—good. My people'll find 'em," he said confidently, getting up to leave.

Marcus hesitated a moment. He wasn't used to asking for help and it went a little against the grain. "If you could, keep an eye out for Abbie?" He hadn't much hope that Garibaldi would understand his obsessive concern; indeed, he couldn't explain to himself why he was so sure that the child was in danger.

Garibaldi regarded Marcus with his usual slightly mocking half-smile. "Franklin asked the same thing. Sure, I'll do what I can. Anything else?"

"No. Thanks."

Garibaldi sketched a salute and had turned to go when the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place, forming a picture in Marcus' mind, indistinct but recognizable: a mosaic of potsherds, and a white-faced woman proffering a towel. "Mr. Garibaldi."

Garibaldi stopped and turned inquiringly.

"Didn't I smash a lot of crockery or something yesterday?"

Ten minutes later, Garibaldi left Medlab with a clipboard full of notes, the hundred credits Marcus had won at poker yesterday, which Garibaldi had retrieved from the Medlab safehold, and a commission to pay the money to the potter in compensation for the damage. Garibaldi's comment that this was probably double the worth of everything Marcus had broken had been met by an indifferent shrug.

Marcus sat up in bed to watch Garibaldi leave and told himself, _There. Finished. You've done all you can. Let it go now._ Then he lay back and spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, trying every meditation technique he had ever learned, silently pleading with Whomever or Whatever might be in charge of the universe, _Take care of her. Watch over her until I can go find her._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Early in the afternoon, Delenn came into Medlab**. In her arms she carried a neatly-folded bundle: a clean Ranger's uniform that she had brought from Marcus' quarters. Ivanova had willingly used her command-level override to open Marcus' door, and sent her best wishes for his recovery.

Delenn had remained low-spirited all morning since leaving the Garden. She seemed to find ill tidings everywhere she turned. Two confirmed Shadow attacks had decimated Brakiri colonies, and the Brakiri Ambassador had angrily demanded to know why his people should waste resources supporting Babylon 5 if no one was going to help them. Following that encounter, she'd gone to the command deck to confer with Sheridan. Their conversation had been interrupted by the report of a brief failure of three transport tubes. Delenn could almost feel the blood pressure of the whole command staff rising. When young Corwin had turned, grinning, to report, "It's a _normal_ glitch, sir—the system's compensating," the wave of relief that swept the whole of C and C demonstrated how tense they all were now about even the most basic station operations.

Just as Delenn was about to leave, Garibaldi had come to deliver his report to the captain. He had a good description of one of Marcus' assailants, as well as of the alien-hating Hunter, and was cautiously optimistic about their chances, as he put it, of "nailing the bastards soon". Nonetheless, Garibaldi had turned to Delenn and said, "Till we do, Ambassador, you want to watch your back. I can order a security escort for you." She had, of course, refused; but she'd been hard pressed to convince the security chief and Sheridan—especially Sheridan—that such precautions were unacceptable.

She would not live in fear. She would not seek special protection from the hazards that they all faced. When and if danger came, she would face it. Any lesser response would be a concession to the Darkness, a defeat worse, in its way, than death itself.

It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that Delenn arrived in Medlab. A Minbari medical tech immediately left his work and came to greet her. She gave him instructions quietly and handed him a small packet she had brought. Then, the uniform in her arms and determined cheer on her face, she went to pay her call.

Marcus was sitting up in a chair, one arm in a sling, his face somber. Deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, for a moment he was unaware that she had come in. When he did glance up and see her, his sudden glad smile only partly relieved the air of discouragement that shadowed him. "Delenn! What a pleasant surprise," he exclaimed, preparing to rise in greeting.

She motioned to him to stay seated and set the uniform aside on a shelf. "I brought this for when you are better. Dr. Franklin tells me that, except for your belt and boots, your clothing was bloodstained past saving."

"He told me that too. Good to hear that at least I won't have to break in new boots. Thank you."

"Were you in meditation just now?" she asked. "If you prefer, I can come back later."

"I wouldn't call it 'meditation'. More like sulking. I'd much prefer it if you could stay awhile."

She smiled, and asked, "Do you drink _khajj'hadur_ tea?"

"Yes," he answered, surprised and pleased.

"I thought perhaps you might. I am having some made."

A second Minbari medical tech brought in a chair and a small table; Delenn sat down and made herself comfortable. She would never have asked a Minbari if he drank _khajj'hadur_ tea, since her people were trained to it from childhood, but few Humans ever learned the art. The first mouthful of the brew, hot and almost intolerably bitter, must be held in the mouth until, reacting with salivary chemicals, it turned suddenly sweet. Once the reaction had occurred, the tea had a sweet, indescribably delicate flavor. The healing and soothing properties of _khajj'hadur_ were the stuff of legend, but very few Humans, most of whom were Rangers, persisted past the inevitable first failures to learn to drink it. Delenn had been sure that Marcus was stubborn enough to be among those few.

The tech to whom Delenn had entrusted the tea now brought in a portable warmer unit, followed by a tray containing a pot of the tea itself and a pair of the wide, shallow bowls in which it was traditionally served. Delenn thanked and dismissed him with a gracious smile and poured out the steaming brew. She and Marcus then lifted the bowls simultaneously, touched them lightly together according to the ceremonial tradition, and took the first bitter sip at the same time. For a moment they sat, eyes closed, waiting for the bitterness to pass. When it did, each of them took the ritual second sip and relaxed. The brief ceremony concluded, they were free to converse.

"One day," Marcus said, "I'll learn to drink this stuff without actually shuddering to start with."

"You do very well," Delenn assured him, watching him intently. Comments about the difficulties of drinking _khajj'hadur_ were common, almost a part of the ceremony. Yet, behind Marcus' quip and his pleasant smile she sensed that something was very wrong. "Are you in much pain?"

"No, not really." He sipped his tea, cautious now not of the flavor but of keeping his mustache dry. Few Minbari wore facial hair, and _khajj'hadur_ tea bowls had not been designed to accommodate it.

"Forgive me if I pry, Marcus, but something is troubling you deeply."

"Oh. Well." He set down the half-empty bowl with a careless shrug and eased his left arm back into the sling. "Embarrassed, I suppose. Only six of them, odds clearly in my favor, here I am in Medlab. Not exactly my finest hour."

Delenn smiled, set down her own bowl, and replenished them both with tea. "You seldom lie to me, Marcus," she said quietly. "Perhaps that is why you do it so poorly."

His smile faded and for a moment he studied the surface of the tea in the bowl. Finally he looked up and met her eyes. "I do it so poorly because I respect you so much. The same reason I don't try it often. Forgive me."

"Perhaps it is a private matter," she said gently.

Marcus lifted his tea bowl and took a meditative sip. Delenn followed suit. As his friend, as his commanding officer, she wanted to help ease whatever burden was weighing down upon him. But she would not pry.

Swallowing his tea, Marcus set the bowl down and began without preliminary, "There's this little girl."

After that, Delenn had only to listen. In a quiet voice, pausing now and then to compose his thoughts or to drink a little more tea, Marcus told her the whole story: how he'd first met the child, his attempts to protect her and see that she was fed, summaries of every conversation they'd had. Now and then he switched from English to Minbari to make a point. Delenn listened without a word. Well into the narrative, she saw Dr. Franklin look in through the window by the bed. With a brief gesture she motioned him away, and to her relief he nodded understanding and withdrew without interrupting them. Intent on his story, Marcus didn't even notice.

Delenn asked no questions and made no comment. As Marcus talked, she watched his face, observed his posture and his occasional gestures, and listened not only to his words but to the tone of his voice. By the time he finished, she knew much more than his words had told her.

"Now she's run off again," Marcus concluded. "Took fright at God knows what and ran off, probably back Downbelow. I—" He gestured helplessly with his unencumbered right hand. "Not sure I could make it that far."

"For what purpose?"

"To find her, of course."

"And is it your responsibility to find her?"

Meditatively, he picked up his tea bowl again. It was cool to his touch and he set it down without tasting what was left. "I never meant it to be," he answered at last. "Never intended for this to happen." He leaned back in his chair with a tired sigh. "Delenn, we spend every waking moment fighting Shadows. Defending billions of unknown lives on worlds we may never see. There's nothing more important, I realize that; but—that day, Downbelow, I just wanted to throw back one little starfish."

"Starfish," she repeated, at a loss. "I know what a starfish is, but what does it mean to 'throw one back'?"

"Old Earth story," he explained, with a slight smile. "Sometimes a bad storm washes starfish ashore. They can live for awhile out of the sea, but they're not very mobile. They're stranded. When the sun comes out, they dry up and die."

"The story?" Delenn prompted.

"The story takes place on a beach. Early morning, after a storm. Hundreds, thousands of stranded starfish. A little boy goes walking along, picking up starfish and flinging them, one by one, back into the sea. Then some adult comes along and points out that the sun will be out soon. The boy can't possibly save more than a few dozen of those thousands of starfish. Why bother flinging them back? What difference does it make? The boy looks down at the starfish in his hand. He says, 'Makes a difference to _this_ one!', and—" Marcus raised his right hand to hurl an imaginary starfish. "There it goes. Splash."

Delenn, smiling, said, "Such a wise story. Yes, that is you, a flinger of starfishes."

He shook his head, as though disclaiming the title. "That was all I meant to do. Just once, to help one person in a way I could see. I thought it was enough. It isn't. Rescue her one time, just to toss her back to the sharks in _that_ ocean?"

"Marcus," said Delenn. "When did you first realize that, when you threw this particular starfish, your heart went with her?"

He stared at her, unable to reply. Delenn went on, "Do you remember our very first conversation? We were discussing a legend concerning the Rangers' brooch, and I asked if you believed it."

"I remember," softly.

"You said that you had stopped believing in miracles. Your words were, 'Part of the heart goes dead'."

"'Best to leave it that way'," he finished for her, in a whisper, his eyes never leaving her face. "Yes. I remember."

Delenn moved the tea things aside, leaned forward, and cupped Marcus' hands between her own. "But that part has not gone dead, has it? And now, that child holds your heart in her two hands, as I suspect you hold hers."

His response was barely audible. "I never meant to."

"No, you did not," she agreed. "You have loved much, lost much, suffered much. You have learned to count the cost before you give your heart, because when you do give it you can hold nothing back. But this child's need spoke to something in you. This time, your heart gave itself."

He could no longer meet her gaze, but dropped his eyes to look down at her hands clasped around his. She tightened her grasp reassuringly and said, "Marcus, you must understand. Your ability to love, your capacity for compassion, these things are of the Light! They are part of your strength. The risk of loss, the pain if it comes—these are part of the price we pay who serve the Light. I know you have the courage to pay this price." She released his hands and sat back, folding her own in her lap.

After a moment or two, he found the courage to look up and meet her eyes. "How is it, Delenn, that you always know the exact right thing to say?"

"I only wish that were true."

"I keep thinking of her, back there, alone—" Marcus glanced at the folded uniform on its shelf, then at the door to the room. "And wondering why she left here—that alone is driving me mad. And I'm sure she's in danger." Briefly, he explained the connection with the Hunter.

Delenn nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. There are, as you say, many sharks in those waters." Unexpectedly, she asked, "What does she look like, this little girl?"

"About so tall." Marcus held up a hand parallel to the floor to measure Abbie's height. The disquieting thought came to him that perhaps Delenn herself was contemplating a descent Downbelow to search. He went on, "Short blond hair, in curls, freckles on her cheeks, hazel eyes. Much too thin, dressed in something shabby and too big for her."

Again, Delenn nodded. Then she electrified him by saying, "Yes. That is the child I saw this morning."

"You've _seen_ her? Where? When?"

Delenn laid a gentle hand on his arm; he looked as though he were going to fly right out of the chair. "Very early this morning, in the Garden. I had gone there to meditate."

"Did she say anything? Was she all right?"

Wishing that she could tell him otherwise, Delenn replied, "She seemed very unhappy. I asked her if I could be of help, and she said No, that she could take care of herself."

"That's Abbie, all right."

"She left a few minutes later. It seems to me that, since she did not return here to you, she must indeed have gone back Downbelow. She is at least accustomed to that environment."

For a second time, Marcus glanced at the fresh uniform and at the door. He was calculating his chances, she knew, gauging his strength against the requirements of the resolution he had already formed. Watching him, Delenn came to a decision of her own.

"Is anyone else searching for her?" she asked.

"Mr. Garibaldi said he'd do what he could," was the dismissive reply. "But he's got other concerns, and even if he does find her she won't trust him. Besides, he doesn't know where to look."

"Do you?"

He returned his full attention to her, hope suddenly dawning. "I have a good idea where to start."

"And if you were to find her, what then?"

"Bring her back here, of course."

"And then?"

"No idea," he admitted freely. "Cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Very well," she said. Then, deliberately, she switched from English to Minbari, which she was sure Dr. Franklin, should he choose this moment to walk in, would not understand. "First," she said, "you must rest. Sleep if you can." She held up a hand to forestall his incipient protest. "Lie down. Rest. Sleep. I will send Lennier to you. When he comes, you will make the attempt together. You are not safe alone Downbelow."

"I'll wait," he promised. "When can I expect him?"

"Do not concern yourself with that. He will wake you. It is most important now that you sleep. The better rested you are, the greater your chance of success."

He nodded agreement, though hope was soaring so high within him that he doubted he would close an eye. "Tell Lennier to bring something to write with. I suppose I'd better at least leave Stephen a note."

"I will tell him."

If she had been a Human woman, Marcus would have kissed her. Instead, he rose to his feet when she did, exchanged formal Minbari bows, and obediently returned to bed as soon as she had left the room. His wound was paining him considerably, but other than that he felt wonderfully eased. Instead of racing futilely, like mice on an exercise wheel, his thoughts now had a clear direction and purpose. Rest, recruit as much strength as he could, and embark on his quest. Delenn had called it an "attempt", but Marcus refused to admit even the possibility of failure.

He began plotting possible search patterns, then stopped himself. That wasn't what he needed; he needed to release his mind, let go of conscious thought, relax into sleep as he had been trained . . . .

The Minbari tech came in, a hypo in his hand, and said quietly in his own language, "The Ambassador told me that you were in pain. Dr. Franklin left orders for medication, should you need it. This will help."

"Thank you." Marcus accepted the shot. Obviously, Delenn was helping him in every way she could think of. He closed his eyes.

The pain, ebbing away. The mind, tranquil and at peace.

Dr. Franklin, ten minutes later, came to check on his patient and found Marcus deeply asleep. _Bless Delenn_, he thought. _Whatever it was she said or did, it was just what he needed_.

**The Hunter's face was immobile, completely expressionless, as he listened to his informant's report.** The informant was not a member of the failed execution squad. That squad—except for the unfortunate Remmick, hampered by his injured and grotesquely swollen leg—was taking care to stay out of sight. The present informant was merely verifying their failure.

"He did survive."

"That's been confirmed?" the Hunter asked.

"Yes, sir. There's a merchant in the plaza, a potter. Yesterday afternoon after the attempt, he knocked over her display. Today he sent money to cover the damage. She was talking about it quite freely."

"Sent. Not brought."

"Sent," the informant confirmed. "By the chief of security, no less."

The Hunter tapped a finger thoughtfully on his desk. Not only had the target survived, he had also remembered what happened and had talked to Garibaldi. The Hunter's eyes narrowed.

Watching him, the informant thanked her stars that she hadn't been on the squad. "Are there orders, sir?"

It would be easy enough to find the target now. He'd sent money to the potter rather than bringing it himself, so it was a reasonably safe bet that he was confined to one of the Medlabs. The job might still be completed without too many questions being asked—but damn Remmick, damn the whole lot of them! Six of them—_six!_—and not a one could slip a quiet blade between one man's ribs.

He said, "Find out the target's location, and the chances of his having a fatal relapse."

"Yes, sir." The informant remained at attention, waiting for further orders or a definite dismissal.

The Hunter's thoughts turned to the Becker girl.

Easier prey than ever, now, with her guardian angel off duty, but the caution that had restrained him before still held. She might be missed; it depended on how much Garibaldi knew. But there were other ways to ensure her silence. _I'll talk to her. I'll tell her what happened to her friend. She'd better stay away from him and keep her mouth shut, or he'll get hurt again, and worse . . . ._

Anticipating the conversation, the Hunter smiled. Watching this smile, his informant fidgeted. The Hunter, who missed very little, observed her uneasy movement with satisfaction.

"No further orders," he said. "Get me the information I need, and then leave me alone. I have a lot of work. See to it I'm not disturbed."

"Yes, sir." She hesitated. "What about Remmick, sir?"

"What about him?"

"His leg, sir. It's getting bad."

The Hunter's voice was soft. "Did Remmick obey my orders?"

A pause. "No, sir."

"But you plan to obey my orders."

"Yes, sir."

"If I want you to do anything about Remmick, what do you think I'll do?"

"Ask—I mean, tell me, sir." The informant swallowed and looked straight ahead at the wall.

"You understand. That's good. Now, about Remmick."

"Sir?"

"Remind him that I don't reward failure."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**As so often happened, Lennier found himself in a dilemma.**

Delenn's instructions had been specific. Lennier was to help spirit Marcus out of Medlab, accompany him Downbelow to search for the Human child named Abbie, and see to it that Marcus returned to Medlab safely. He had accepted the assignment as he received the least of Delenn's requests—as though it had come directly from the mouth of Valen Himself. Looking back, though, Lennier realized that Delenn had overlooked one thing.

The problem hadn't occurred to him at first. He had gone to Medlab, carrying two hooded cloaks. He had collected Marcus' personal property from the Minbari tech, who had earlier retrieved it from the safehold: belt, boots, Ranger brooch, about twenty credits in cash, and the telescoped _denn'bok_. Marcus woke immediately at Lennier's touch, fully alert and rested. While Lennier stood watch, Marcus dressed swiftly and silently, showing no sign of discomfort. It was all going so smoothly that possible complications never crossed Lennier's mind. With the paper and stylus Lennier had brought, Marcus scribbled a few words. Then, to finish their preparations, Lennier handed him the pike.

Marcus took it, a warrior's implacability in his eyes. He stowed the weapon inside his coat. In pitch-perfect warrior-caste Minbari, he said, "Let's go." The subdialect he used conveyed a deeper meaning: _We go to conquer_.

Then, too late, Lennier realized the predicament he was in. Delenn's instructions were crystal clear: go, seek, and return safely. But, just as clearly, Marcus was determined to go, seek, _find_, and return. As thoroughgoing a warrior as any Minbari born to that caste, Marcus would not return without the missing child. But suppose that, in the labyrinthine depths of Downbelow, the child could not be found? Under such circumstances, persuading Marcus to return to Medlab, safely or otherwise, would be impossible.

Delenn had neglected to tell Lennier what to do if the child could not be found, and he hadn't thought to ask.

_Well,_ he thought to himself, _Delenn didn't say how soon we were to return . . ._

Moving like ghosts, waiting silently in shadows when necessary, Lennier and Marcus slipped out of Medlab and headed for the nearest transport tube. Marcus moved along briskly, but at something less than his usual pace. As they boarded the core shuttle that would whisk them the length of the station, he spoke. "How much did Delenn tell you?"

"Everything."

"Good. Saves time."

As the shuttle took them over the lush serenity of the Garden, Lennier reminded himself that, despite its name, Downbelow wasn't really _down;_ to reach it, one moved _across_, traversing the length of Babylon 5 from the more pleasant Blue, Red, and Green sections. Nonetheless, exiting the shuttle at its terminus in the Brown section, he couldn't help but feel as though he had been dropped into a cavern. The lighting seemed dimmer, the air was stale, and heavy with smells. Several people darted suspicious looks at him as they passed. Lennier quickly donned one of the cloaks he had brought and handed the other to Marcus.

Few Minbari ventured Downbelow—certainly Lennier himself never went there unless he must—and he felt much safer with the hood concealing his bone-crested head. There were too many people here for whom the Earth-Minbari War had never ended.

Marcus slung on the cloak, but left the hood down, which to Lennier's mind rather defeated the cloak's purpose. Only a warrior would be so cavalier, going about openly where someone had tried to kill him just the day before. Marcus led the way to a lift and directed it, "Brown twelve." And so the search began.

There seemed to be some order to it. Marcus went from one shabby establishment to another, no two places seeming very far apart; at each grimy café or tavern he would slip just inside the door, scan the place thoroughly, then shake his head and leave. He never spoke a word. It was obvious to Lennier that he was reserving every ounce of strength for the search.

After the seventh or eighth foray, Marcus led Lennier down a twisting corridor. Nearing its end—it led to some sort of marketplace—Marcus stopped for a moment, dispassionately studying a smeared stain on the floor. "Right about here," he said. "Maintenance does a poor job in this sector." With a glance up and down the intersecting passage he proceeded out into the plaza. Lennier followed, puzzling over Marcus' words until he realized that the stain had been dried blood. They had just revisited the site of the assault. Had warrior-caste triumph compelled Marcus to pause here? Or did he feel the need to purge his mind and spirit of the event?—an impulse far more understandable to Lennier.

Just within the plaza itself, Marcus pointed out a ramshackle shop and said, "There's a woman there, a potter. She saw Abbie yesterday. Might know something. Will you go and ask? She might make a fuss over me. Haven't got time for that."

Lennier agreed, with inward misgivings about leaving Marcus alone for even a few minutes. As though reading his thoughts, Marcus said, "I'll be all right. I'll wait right here for you."

The potter, when she learned why Lennier was there, did indeed make a fuss, almost overwhelming him with questions. Was "that poor young man" all right? Had he really meant to send her a full hundred credits? He hadn't changed his mind about that, had he? She seemed pulled two ways, between concern for the "poor young man" and for the money he had sent her. Lennier, with some difficulty, assured her that both the young man and her hundred credits were quite safe. But when he asked about the Human child, the potter could give no help at all. She'd never noticed that particular child before or since yesterday afternoon.

Marcus received his report with a brief, resigned sigh. "Well. There are other places."

They resumed the search, moving more slowly now. This area wasn't too unpleasant, for Downbelow, but now Marcus seemed less sure of himself, less certain of which of the plaza's shops and booths to investigate. He kept his lips pressed tightly together, and his pace was definitely slower. Lennier knew that he was tiring rapidly.

As they left yet another café, Lennier said, "We must stop now."

"No." The refusal was swift and unequivocal.

"Marcus, Delenn's instructions were most explicit. I am to keep you from harm. If you push yourself beyond your strength, you will harm yourself. I cannot permit that."

"I can't stop yet." There was anger, and just a hint of desperation, in Marcus' voice. "I'm not going back without her."

"I said nothing about going back," Lennier pointed out gently. "But, before we continue, you must rest."

Marcus, already drawing breath to argue, paused. Then the tension around his eyes and mouth relaxed a little. "Thanks, Lennier. Right. I know a place where we won't be disturbed."

Reaching this place involved taking a lift to yet another level of Brown sector, where they emerged into an entertainment district. Bars and clubs blazoned their attractions with garish, flashing signs in a blinding variety of colors. Insistent, rhythmic music throbbed from the doors of some establishments, creating a cacophony for passers-by to wade through. This maelstrom of noise and light was the last place Lennier would have chosen for rest—he had thought of seeking out Brother Theo's monks—but Marcus moved unerringly through it to a dim terrace littered with tables and chairs.

"No one will bother us here," he explained, dropping into a chair and leaning his elbows on the table. "You have to go inside the club for actual service."

"Then, why do they maintain this area?" Lennier asked curiously.

"Smugglers' meetings, mostly." Marcus pulled up the hood of his cloak. "Just sit here quietly. Look like you're waiting for a tech runner." He hunched over the table, propping his forehead on his clasped hands. A soft grunt of pain escaped him and he shifted a little in the chair.

Lennier nervously adjusted his own hood and tried to look as though he were waiting for a tech runner. Fortunately, his general anxiety over their surroundings, coupled with his worry for Marcus, gave him a convincing air of nervous tension.

Over Marcus' bowed, hooded head he could read the bright signs around them. Though he understood the words themselves, he couldn't fathom what they meant. How could "Girls" be described as "Red-Hot"? And what, exactly, was a "Pleasure Palace"?

He put the insoluble riddle aside and, reaching into an inner pocket, pulled out a metal flask which he pushed across the table to Marcus. "This may help."

Marcus opened the flask and sampled its contents. "I remember this stuff. Thanks again. You think of everything."

The flask contained an herbal distillate, most commonly used by the Minbari worker caste for its marked tonic properties. Marcus took a couple of long swallows, then capped the flask and returned it, still half-full, to Lennier. "Better already," he asserted.

"Can I do anything else to help?"

"Pray," requested Marcus, in all seriousness, and rested his head on his hands again.

As though Lennier hadn't been doing just that all along.

"The problem is," said Marcus a few minutes later, without looking up, "I haven't the least idea where to go next. We've already been everywhere I've ever seen her."

"Then we must rely on faith."

"Afraid so."

Lennier felt his shoulders relax at once..

Marcus lifted his head and pushed his chair back from the table. "May as well start," he said, getting to his feet and turning away from the terrace into the corridor. Abruptly, he froze in place. Lennier, coming up beside him, glanced at him inquiringly.

"Well. So there is a God." Marcus gestured toward one of the signs that had confused Lennier so much. Lennier, of course, agreed, but he saw no connection between the sign and Marcus' sudden foray into theology. Fortunately, the explanation was quickly forthcoming.

"Abbie mentioned knowing someone named Bettina. It's a start, at least. Come on."

Marcus set off with renewed vigor. Lennier, following close behind, realized that he was about to learn firsthand what a Pleasure Palace was.

As he'd done so many times now, Marcus slipped inside the door. Then, quickly, he retreated a few steps and spoke, softly and in Minbari. "She's there. Come inside and wait by the door till I'm sure she won't take off again."

There was nothing palatial about Bettina's Pleasure Palace, nor did Lennier find it at all pleasant. It looked like most of the other dim, stuffy taverns he'd seen in the past hour, except for the fact that all the waitresses were Human females whose clothing was either skin-tight or so precariously fastened that it threatened to fall right off. Marcus tossed back his hood with an impatient movement of his head and made for a small table in the farthest corner, where a child sat huddled, her back to the room. Two of the Human females turned their heads and watched as he passed.

Lennier withdrew into the darkest shadow he could find, retreated deep into his hood, and waited.

When Marcus had almost reached the table, he must have spoken; the child started, and turned to face him. A blaze of joy, visible to Lennier right across the room, illumined her face. She sprang to her feet.

Then her face changed, the smile vanishing, the mouth pinching into a thin line. The joy-light flickered and extinguished itself, like a guttering candle consuming the last of its wax. The child folded her arms across her narrow chest and turned her back on Marcus.

The Ranger stood quite still for a moment, looking down at her. Then he turned his head and found Lennier, whom he beckoned with a nod and a quick gesture. Uncomfortably aware of the scrutiny of the females, the young Minbari joined Marcus and the child.

"Abbie, this is my friend Lennier," Marcus said in a quiet, even voice. "He came with me to help find you."

The child favored Lennier with the briefest possible glance over her shoulder. "Hello." Her bony shoulders twitched in a shrug. "Okay. So you found me."

Marcus looked as thoroughly puzzled as Lennier felt. He pulled up a nearby chair and sat, coming closer to the girl's eye level.

Abruptly, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'll be all right."

"Good," she said curtly, still refusing to look at him.

"I don't think you understand," Marcus went on, with a patience that spoke well for his training. "We've come to bring you out of Downbelow. I'm going to find someplace better for you to live."

Another twitch of the shoulders. "Yeah? So who died and left you king?"

Lennier blinked, astounded by the girl's appalling discourtesy. Surely Humans trained their offspring better than this?

Marcus' brows drew together. "No one, actually. I'm Henry the Fourth. I'm a usurper."

A moment's pause; then the child asked, "What's that?"

"Means I'm taking the throne whether you like it or not." Marcus waited for a response. When there was none, he tried again. "We're going to take you out of Downbelow. You won't have to live here any more."

Suddenly, as if unable to contain herself, she turned to face him and spat out, "Is that what you and that Dr. Franklin decided? Did you f-finally figure out what to do with the child?" Her chin began to quiver.

"Abbie, love—oh, dear God," he said softly, studying her face, comprehension dawning. It was a moment before he could speak. "You heard us talking this morning."

"I heard _that_ part. So I left."

"Abbie—"

"And you weren't just talking. You were yelling. You were mad."

"You're right," he said. "I was furious; we both were. Dr. Franklin was angry with me, because he thought I hadn't been looking after you properly. I was angry because he was right. Angry with him, angry with myself."

Abbie tried to shrug again, but couldn't quite manage it this time. "You don't need to look after me. I'm not a baby."

"I know you're not, love, but you are still a child."

He was winning her, Lennier could tell. He himself was so absorbed in the conversation that he was badly startled when the hood was pulled back from his head by one of the females in the falling-off clothes. She moved close to him—very close, most uncomfortably close—and ran a finger delicately around his fluted bone ridge. "I've never seen a Minbari in here," the female told him in a soft, breathy voice, watching him through half-closed eyes. "Are you lonely?"

"No," answered Lennier, bewildered. What he was, was alarmed, chagrined, and acutely embarrassed.

Marcus looked up at the clinging female and snapped, "We're not interested."

"Honey, if you don't have a sweet tooth, why'd you come into the candy store?" she purred, laying a hand on the dismayed Lennier's shoulder and drawing so close that her body actually pressed against his.

"I said, we're not interested," Marcus repeated.

The female looked at him, then glanced at Abbie's scarlet face. "I see," she said, her voice suddenly cold and harsh. Her upper lip curled in disgust. "Suit yourself, if she's what you want. I guess it takes all kinds." She moved away from Lennier, who breathed a sigh of relief. Then she turned back and hissed at Marcus: "You are really, really _sick_, you know that?" Whirling, she flounced away.

Marcus, to Lennier's amazement, seemed unperturbed, but Abbie was not. "Let's go," she said abruptly, still blushing hard. "Let's get out of here."

Lennier didn't draw an easy breath until they were outside, the child staying close to Marcus. The fierce color was receding from her face, but when she spoke her voice vibrated with outrage. "She thought you were _customers!_"

"How, exactly, do you know about customers?" Marcus asked, a little apprehensively.

"That's—that's where I sleep nights," she explained. "Bettina took me there after Papa—after he died. I sleep in the storeroom at night and clean up during the day. Yesterday she sort of threw me out, but she let me come back."

Marcus looked down at her, then back up at the bright sign, and muttered a Drazi curse which, fortunately, neither Abbie nor Lennier understood. Then, regaining his self-control, he said, "Well, all that's over with."

Looking up at him anxiously, Abbie said, "Can I—can we—?"

"What is it, love? Hungry?"

"Can I get my stuff?" she requested in a tiny voice. "Papa and I saved a couple things."

_No,_ thought Lennier, _nothing more, not now._ Surely by now Marcus was near exhaustion, and until they left Downbelow none of them was safe. But Marcus simply nodded and said, "Of course. Back there?" indicating the sign.

She made a face. "_No._ There's a secret place Papa and I found."

"All right. Show us," said Marcus. Quietly, in Minbari, he added, "It's all right, Lennier. I'm good for a little while yet. I never want her coming back here, once we leave."

The entertainment district ended abruptly at the yawning mouth of an unfinished corridor, vaguely lit by builders' lumes, one of the odd places of the station where construction had never been completed. Down this corridor they followed Abbie. Very shortly, the air turned cold, then very cold; climate controls had never been brought on-line here. Their breath came in puffs of vapor. Marcus offered his cloak to Abbie, who refused, saying, "It's not very far." He shook his head in frustration, but she hurried on ahead and there was nothing he could do.

They came to a gap where two bulkhead panels, hastily installed, failed to meet. "This is it. Behind the wall," said Abbie. "You'll have to wait here. It's too small for grown-ups." She helped herself to a discarded lume and squeezed through the gap.

Marcus leaned back against the bulkhead, pressing his hand against his throbbing side. Wordlessly, Lennier brought out the flask again. Marcus drained it to the dregs and handed it back. "Thanks."

Behind the panel, they could hear Abbie moving purposefully about.

Lennier hesitated—perhaps this wasn't quite the time—but his curiosity was overwhelming. "Marcus, if I may ask you—that female. Why did she ask if I were lonely?"

Marcus grinned. "Why do you think?"

"She was willing to—" Lennier floundered. "She thought I wanted to—"

"Yes, and yes."

With an effort, Lennier came out and said it. "She—sells herself. For money."

"More like a short-term rental, but you have the idea."

Lennier, aghast, opened his mouth twice to speak, but found no words.

One of the bulkhead panels shifted a little as pressure was exerted on it from behind. Abbie struggled through the gap, hampered now by a bulky cloth-wrapped bundle clutched to her chest. Lennier moved to help her; the child flinched away from his outstretched hand. Remembering the environment from which she had just come, he retreated at once, almost guiltily. Abbie adjusted the heavy, rectangular items wrapped in the cloth, which appeared to be a man's shirt.

"Books?" exclaimed Lennier.

Marcus chuckled tiredly, reluctantly moving away from the support of the wall. "Why am I not surprised? . . . can either of us take those for you, love?"

"No." She hugged the bundle fiercely to herself.

"Got everything? Let's go, then."

One last walk through Downbelow, to a lift and then the shuttle terminus. Lennier imagined the scrutiny of scores of predatory Lurkers, eyeing them, coveting the unknown contents of Abbie's bundle. No, not imagined; Marcus stayed very close to the child, _denn'bok_ ready in his hand. Lennier prayed urgently, more confident of the protection of Valen than of anything he and Marcus could do. When they reached the sanctuary of the shuttle, he offered a silent but fervent thanksgiving.

Marcus collapsed gratefully into the nearest seat, breathing heavily, and put pressure on his wounded side again. Lennier looked a question at him; the answer came in quick Minbari. "I think it's bleeding, but not much. I'll make it."

"What was that?" Abbie demanded, annoyed.

"Sorry, love. Not very polite to speak Minbari in front of you," Marcus replied. "Lennier's wondering if he should be worrying about me, and I was telling him No."

"Well, I think he should," she said bluntly. "You look awful."

"Thanks." He rested his head against the shuttle window and closed his eyes. Lennier settled in the opposite seat, where he could keep an eye on them both.

Their return trip was longer than the outgoing one, the shuttle making more frequent and longer station stops as crew members came off duty shifts and civilians ended their workdays. Lennier, finding it hard to relax his vigilance, carefully observed the passengers who boarded their shuttle car. Abbie, too, kept anxious watch, gripping her precious bundle tightly and sitting at rigid attention. Only Marcus seemed oblivious to their surroundings. But as the journey progressed, a little color began returning to his face and he revived enough to open his eyes and sit up straighter, once or twice looking down at Abbie with an air of deep satisfaction.

They had just passed over the Garden and stopped in the Red section when the child stiffened, staring over Lennier's shoulder at the station platform beyond. "It's that man!" she exclaimed in a breathless whisper. Lennier twisted in his seat to see who she was talking about; and Marcus, all attention now, asked, "What man?"

She unclenched one hand from her bundle to point. "That Nightwatch man."

He followed her pointing finger, scanning the platform. "You mean him?" he asked, indicating a specific figure, and she nodded. The shuttle car pulled away from the station, resuming its route.

"That's Zack Allan. He's one of Mr. Garibaldi's security men."

Keeping her voice to a whisper, she said, "He's a _Nightwatch_ man. He was there, That Night."

Lennier said, "I believe that, at one time, Mr. Allan belonged to the Nightwatch, but he's no longer one of them. In any case, all Nightwatch members have been expelled from the station."

Abbie stared at him, then at Marcus, her expression incredulous. "No, they haven't," she said firmly. "I see them Downbelow all the time."

Lennier almost asked if she were sure; but Marcus, looking down at her earnest face, had no doubts whatsoever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**When Dr. Franklin found the note resting on the discarded sling**—_Don't worry, Lennier's with me, be back as soon as we've found Abbie, M._—his initial impulse was to link through to Garibaldi and call out a security detail. Instead, after re-reading the note, he had his communication patched through to Delenn.

The Minbari Ambassador was all sweet reason. Of course she knew what Lennier was doing; in fact, he was acting on her instructions. Marcus was clearly determined to go Downbelow and search for the child; and in Lennier's company, she was sure he would be safe. Franklin's angry protest—that, with or without Lennier, Marcus wasn't fit to be out and about—drew Delenn's most charming and implacable smile. "The decision had already been made, Doctor," she said.

"That was not your decision to make!"

"No, it was not. It was his."

Under the velvet of her diplomacy, she was unyielding steel. Franklin, forced to acknowledge defeat, slammed a fist against the comm unit and broke the connection. No point in calling Security. Even at less than his best, and especially with Lennier's help, Marcus could probably evade any detail Garibaldi might send.

Fifteen minutes later, Franklin couldn't spare a thought for his missing patient.

An emergency team was urgently summoned to Ambassador Mollari's quarters. Seconds later, an alarm came in of an explosion on the docking bay, with multiple, severe casualties. A third call pleaded for a trauma team to rush to the Zocalo and deal with an unspecified emergency in one of the restaurants. Yet another summons came from the Gneissh trade center in Gray sector, a call which Franklin himself suited up to answer, leaving Dr. Hobbes to control the increasing chaos in Medlab as the comm unit signaled yet again.

There was no emergency in the Gray sector. All Franklin and his team found there was a disrupted trade center, a confused security team, which had rushed there in response to an emergency call, and a thoroughly angry Trade Minister.

No emergency existed in any restaurant on the Zocalo.

Workers, pilots, and passengers alike in the docking bay denied reporting any explosion. Indeed, operations had been going quite smoothly until the place was invaded by the triage team, the trauma team, and the two security contingents that had been called there. A half-dozen ships' captains lodged complaints with Ivanova about the disruption.

Londo Mollari was disturbed in the enjoyment of a lavish meal and an exotic new wine by the unwarranted intrusion of a trauma team and Garibaldi. He bypassed Ivanova, complaining directly, and at length, to Sheridan.

As it was reckoned up later, a total of ten emergency calls had come in to Security in as many minutes, each reporting a situation that demanded an immediate response and afforded no time to ask questions. During the same time period, fourteen emergencies had been reported to Medlab. The message logs, and the messages themselves, evaporated from both the computer system and the backups just as Ivanova's tech crew was beginning its analysis. Twenty-three of the twenty-four emergencies were false alarms.

Fifteen minutes after the first call, the barrage of false alarms stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Tornado-like, it left a trail of wreckage in its wake. Sheridan and Ivanova began working their way through an avalanche of complaints and the shambles that had been made of the docking schedule. Garibaldi headed Downbelow to confer with Brothers Bernard and Aquinas. Dr. Franklin ordered an autopsy on the body of the sole genuine emergency: a facilities worker, felled by a sudden, massive coronary. The overtaxed emergency team had arrived just in time for him to breathe his last under the triage tech's hands.

Normalcy had been largely restored to Medlab by the time the prodigals returned, a little more than two hours after Marcus and Lennier had slipped out. Franklin, in the midst of reviewing the preliminary autopsy results, was still keeping a sharp eye on the door and was quick to meet them: Lennier, serene as usual and carrying two cloaks over one arm; Marcus, pallid, obviously in pain, and looking ready to drop; and Abbie, lugging a bulky bundle, her thin face tense and apprehensive, by no means sure of her welcome.

The sharp reproof that had risen to Franklin's lips died away at the sight of her, even before Marcus said, "Take it easy on me, Stephen. We've already scared her off once today." Lennier steered Marcus to the nearest chair.

"I'm just glad you made it back," the doctor replied. He took a quick evaluative look at his patient before turning to Abbie, saying gently, "Are you all right, honey?"

She nodded stiffly, still in the grip of anxiety. "Shouldn't you be looking after Marcus?"

"Sure, right away. Let's just find Dr. Hobbes—"

"If the young lady will permit," said Lennier, "I will be honored to escort her to find Dr. Hobbes."

Abbie offered him a tiny smile. "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Lennier."

"Yes, thanks, Lennier," echoed Marcus from his chair. "And thank Delenn for me, will you?"

"Certainly," Lennier responded, with the formal little Minbari bow. "Miss?" He led Abbie away, the child casting a worried look back at Marcus as she followed.

Franklin turned to his patient. "Can you make it back to your room?"

"Of course," Marcus asserted, but he accepted Franklin's supporting arm readily enough.

Examining the wound, Franklin decided that though Marcus had done himself a little harm, on the whole it could have been much worse. The wound had reopened and begun to bleed, soaking the bandage, but the flow was already slowing. Deciding he could deal with the situation under local anesthesia, Franklin rang for a surgical nurse and a suture kit. Marcus lay silent while they worked, visibly relaxing once the local took hold and masked the pain. Finally, he ventured, "I appreciate your not calling out the guard dogs."

"That's right. You don't know what's happened," replied Franklin, in no mood for jokes. As he finished his task and began re-dressing the injury, he told about the false alarms.

"Our saboteur again?"

"Looks like."

"Any harm done?"

"A man's dead because my people couldn't get to him in time."

"Twice a murderer, then."

The dressing was completed. Franklin handed the used instruments and discarded surgical materials to the nurse, who stacked everything neatly on a tray and left the room. With the doctor's help, Marcus shifted onto his back. "Nightwatch," he said.

"Nightwatch! What about them?"

"On our way back, Abbie saw Zack Allan. She called him 'that Nightwatch man'. Says she sees Nightwatch people Downbelow 'all the time'."

"That makes sense," Franklin said slowly, revolving the possibilities in his mind. "That makes all kinds of sense. They already tried to take the station back once, by targeting Delenn. Why not target the station itself? And there's no guarantee we got rid of them all."

"I think I need a word with Mr. Garibaldi," Marcus began, trying to turn onto his right side and get up. Franklin let him struggle for a few seconds, then gently pushed him back down.

"What you need," he said, "is rest. You've done more than enough knight-errantry for one day. You got off lucky, this time, but your body still has to pay for this little expedition. Now if you want that wound to heal properly, you'll start behaving yourself. I'll tell Garibaldi about this Nightwatch lead."

Marcus listened meekly, and waited a moment before he replied. "That's it? That's the whole lecture?"

"I guess after the lecture I read you this morning, I'm not in a position to give another."

"You do understand, then? I had to go after her. It was something I said that sent her off."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "You said that _we'd_ scared her off."

"We, but mostly me. She heard us this morning. She heard me ask what you proposed to do with her. Took it to mean I didn't want to be bothered with her any more." Marcus fidgeted a little, as though in pain, though Franklin knew the local couldn't have begun to wear off yet.

Quietly, Franklin said, "I think you've more than made up for it. She's safe, you're safe—I guess that's all that counts. I'll go talk to Garibaldi. You get some rest." He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold. "Oh. One more thing."

"What's that?"

"Try pulling another stunt like this, and I'll sedate you into the middle of next week. Got that?"

"Got it," Marcus acknowledged, and Franklin left.

Marcus closed his eyes. The combined influences of urgency, adrenaline, and Minbari homebrew, which had sustained him for the past half-hour or so, were gone now. An overwhelming fatigue was insinuating itself into the very marrow of his bones. It was no trouble at all to obey Stephen's order to rest; indeed, Marcus doubted he'd have been able to move if the place were to catch fire.

_Worth it,_ he thought, _worth whatever price I have to pay, just to know she's safe._ Whoever or Whatever was in charge of the universe had come through splendidly. Marcus offered a wordless thanksgiving, as heartfelt as any Lennier had prayed in his whole consecrated life.

After awhile a nurse came in, propped him up on pillows, and brought a dinner tray. By a herculean effort, he ate about half a bowl of soup without help, thereby avoiding the indignity of being spoon-fed and the greater indignity of returning to intravenous nourishment. The food helped a little; he felt more alert when he'd finished. The nurse removed the extra pillows and left, repeating the standard Medlab mantra, "Get some rest, now."

_I hope Stephen comes soon to tell me what Garibaldi said._

When Franklin did return, he took his time, busying himself again with scanners and monitors. "Not bad. A little temperature, but that'll pass. Your blood pressure's back up. I think we can get by without another transfusion."

"Fine. Thank you," Marcus replied impatiently. "What did Mr. Garibaldi say?"

"He'd like Abbie to look over some pictures of known Nightwatch members, see if she can identify any of them. Think she can handle that?"

Marcus, trying to consider the question, found it difficult to concentrate. "Maybe," he said finally. "I think—she'd need one of us with her. Moral support."

"That would be you. She doesn't trust me the way she does you. Let's not worry about it until tomorrow. Need something to help you sleep?"

The question evoked a weak chuckle. "Good one Stephen, that's very good . . . . I'd like to tell Abbie good night. So she won't worry."

"I'll send her in."

Abbie padded quietly into the room a few minutes later. She'd had another bath, and her damp curls fluffed out from her head. The blue Medlab gown she wore came down almost to her wrists and fell well below her knees. Dr. Franklin had told her to stay just a few minutes and not to let Marcus talk much.

She was shocked at how pale and drained he still looked. During the last quarter-hour or so of their trip from Downbelow, he'd assured her that he'd be fine once they reached Medlab. She'd understood that to mean that, once he had a chance to lie down and rest, he'd start getting better right away, but obviously he hadn't. She swallowed hard and put on a brave smile as she came to his bedside.

"Had dinner, love?" His voice was weak, which frightened her.

"Dinner and a bath and everything," she assured him.

"Good." He paused, blinking slowly, struggling to stay awake.

She wanted to tell him so much—how sorry she was for running away and causing him all this trouble. She longed to ask him what would happen to her now, where and how she would live. But she couldn't demand one single thing more from him tonight. Instead, she said, "Maybe we can have breakfast together tomorrow?"

"Sounds lovely."

"And, and I can show you my books."

"Mm. I'd like that."

His eyes were closing now. Abbie reached out to gently tuck the covers closer around his shoulders and to smooth a place where the pillow was crumpled. "Is that better?"

"Perfect," he whispered, turning his head a little and burrowing down into the pillow. "G'night, love."

Greatly daring, she said, "Computer. Lights down one-half." She listened in the dimness to his deep, regular breathing and glanced around furtively. Then she leaned forward. "Goodnight, love," she whispered, and kissed him gently on the upturned cheek. He never stirred.

Abbie tiptoed out, reported to the waiting Dr. Franklin, "He's asleep," and went back to her own bed. For the second night in a row, she was warm, well-fed, safe, clean, and comfortable. After awhile, she fell asleep and dreamed of her father lying dead in his blood. 

**Reports of the chaos were gratifying, especially the description of the havoc in the docking bay.** Nonetheless, the Hunter was unsatisfied; one of his main goals had not been met. The target's location in Medlab had been confirmed by a check of the computer record. But the operative assigned to deal with him, who'd walked freely into Medlab while the medical and security teams were being kept busy elsewhere, hadn't found him. Neither had anyone else. One improbable report, of his having been briefly glimpsed Downbelow at the Abandon All Hope, was disdainfully rejected.

Hiding? Back in his quarters? Or, with any luck, already dead? Coldly determined, the Hunter resumed his work.

**Brothers Bernard and Aquinas, sternly tearing themselves from the myriad of fascinating new data generated by the two dozen false alarms, joined their brothers at Compline.** During the Office the whole community interceded for the repose of the soul of Amos Tuttle, maintenance worker, and prayed also for the wife and two daughters he'd left behind on Earth. Brother Theo had received three separate requests for these prayers: one each from Franklin and Garibaldi; the third—Theo warmed with satisfaction—from Captain Sheridan himself.

After Compline, the two monks returned to their printouts with renewed dedication.

**Garibaldi called it "just a routine photo I.D.", but there was nothing routine about it as far as Ivanova was concerned.** She was highly skeptical of the whole proceeding, the more so because of the strictures Franklin laid down. They couldn't even set the thing up at a definite time or place, because the kid couldn't face it unless Marcus was with her, and Franklin couldn't tell them till morning when Marcus would be up to it, or whether he'd be able to come to the captain's office or the command staff would have to go to Medlab. And then the doctor added, and repeated, other cautions: don't frighten the kid, don't ask her too many questions, above all _don't touch her_. Over a couple of glasses at Earhart's, Ivanova expressed her misgivings to Garibaldi. "I just don't see how some little kid from Downbelow can tell us anything useful. Especially this kid. She sounds so—so fragile."

He set down his club soda and asked pointedly, "Got any other leads?"

Her silent stare into her glass was the only answer.

"Face it," said Garibaldi, "we're up a creek here. It's worth a shot."

Ivanova remained silent, glumly consuming her vodka. The fact that they were this desperate disturbed her most of all.

Garibaldi had a few doubts of his own. The kid might help or she might not; he was willing to take a chance on that. But the captain had insisted that Zack Allan be present, since the child had definitely identified him as a Nightwatch member. After all, Garibaldi himself had said that the saboteur could be anybody. But he'd come to trust Zack, after a long period of doubt and testing, and he didn't much appreciate feeling that his judgment was in doubt. Still—"Chain of command," he'd reminded himself, and ordered Zack to attend. Zack was baffled by the order and a little resentful at the explanation. "Chief," he'd said, "how long do I have to go on proving myself?" Garibaldi had no answer for him.

There was one little whiff of hope. Brother Aquinas had alerted Garibaldi that he and Bernard _might_ have come up with an antiviral program that _might_ be of help. Personally, Garibaldi hoped it would be a lot quicker. He hoped that the kid could point to a face and name a name.

**Captain Sheridan, after ninety minutes of trying to soothe Questal** and two Gneissh Sub-Ministers, was just glad to be dealing once again with people who used more than one verb tense.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Marcus hoped to God that they were doing the right thing**.

Dressed in a brown shirt-and-slacks combination he'd never seen before, Abbie had been sitting waiting by his bedside when he woke that morning. Ten hours of sleep had restored him, and he sat up easily, if not entirely comfortably. Glowing with joy at his improvement, Abbie practically danced off to fetch his breakfast tray, dismissing his protest that she didn't have to do that. "I _want_ to. You're always looking out for me. Now it's my turn to take care of you." Solicitously, she buttered his toast and poured out his tea, apologizing that she'd already had her own breakfast when she woke up almost three hours earlier.

While he ate, she showed him her treasured books. There were six of them, all old-fashioned codices. Five were well-kept, beautifully illustrated children's classics, including, of course, an omnibus edition of Kipling's _Jungle Books_. The sixth she kept wrapped in the shirt into which she'd bundled them all last night Downbelow. When he'd laid the Kipling aside, she slowly unfolded the cloth to reveal a leather-bound, thumb-indexed volume: _The Works of William Shakespeare_. Abbie picked it up reverently and looked at Marcus, suddenly hesitant.

This was her Grail, he realized, a relic so sacred that even he might not touch it. He folded his hands so that he couldn't have taken the book even if she'd offered it. "Your father's?" he asked gently. She nodded. "It's splendid," he said. "You'll be glad of it one day, when you're old enough to understand it."

"I'm glad of it now," she said, re-swathing the book carefully in the blue shirt. Franklin came in then, briefly wielding his scanner and pronouncing Marcus much better. Then he began, "Abbie, we have to ask you something," and explained what Garibaldi wanted.

She listened attentively, even solemnly, gnawing at a well-bitten thumbnail.

"Just looking at pictures?" she asked, looking to Marcus for the answer.

"That's all it is, love."

"Where?"

"Captain's office," said Franklin.

"Can you be there with me?" she asked, still addressing Marcus.

"Absolutely. Both of us, if you like."

She gave it a moment's thought and said, unenthusiastically, "I guess so."

_What else could she say?_ Marcus thought, with a sudden pang. Stephen had made it sound as though Abbie had a choice; but if she'd refused, Marcus knew they would have found some way to persuade her. Coerce her. Take advantage of her dependence on them, and of her devotion to him personally . . . .

_But the thing needs to be done. If she knows something that can help find the saboteur, we have to get it from her._

Franklin broke out a dressing kit and began to change the bandage on Marcus' forearm. Abbie busily tidied away the breakfast tray. Marcus had left a slice of toast and a packet of jelly untouched; the child deftly wrapped these in the napkin and slipped the little bundle among the folds of the shirt. "I better go put this away," she said. "Back in a minute."

Watching her leave, thinking how thin and frail she looked, Marcus asked, "Where'd she get the clothes?"

"Dr. Hobbes."

"Guess I'll need to start thinking about clothes and things. Where she's going to stay—can't stop in Medlab forever. And with me going back on duty in two weeks—"

"Three weeks," Franklin corrected him at once. "We'll figure something out. You're not in this alone, you know."

Marcus' reply was pensive. "Delenn thinks I hold Abbie's heart in my hands. I'm afraid she may be right. I hurt that child yesterday without meaning to. Didn't even know I was doing it. I hope to God that doesn't happen again today."

Franklin searched, unsuccessfully, for something reassuring to say. The best he could come up with was, "Let's take it a step at a time. You get dressed. I'll call Garibaldi and tell him we're set."

The only reply was a somber nod.

"Marcus, two people have died."

"I know."

"We have to do this."

"I know. Just—keep reminding me, will you, Stephen?"

**Just outside Sheridan's door, Abbie momentarily yielded to the fluttery feeling in her stomach and reached up toward Marcus**. His hand closed over hers immediately—warm, strong, reassuring. As the captain's door opened she quickly pulled her own hand free. _It's just looking at pictures,_ she scolded herself. _Stop being such a baby._

Flanked by Marcus and Dr. Franklin, she stepped into a large, pleasant room full of grown-ups in menacing black uniforms. No, not full. Only three people, she told herself sternly, two men and a woman. She clasped her hands behind her back to make sure she didn't reach for Marcus again.

One of the men was saying, "Glad to see you up and around," to which Marcus replied, "Thank you, sir. Abbie, this is Captain Sheridan."

The captain was a nice-looking man, she decided, beginning to relax a little. Then he bent down, hands on knees, and spoiled it by saying, "Abbie. Well, that's a very pretty name." He was just another grown-up, she realized, disappointed, and therefore not to be trusted. The best she could do was a subdued, "Hello."

Marcus continued the introductions. "And this is Commander Susan Ivanova."

Abbie looked and saw a severe-looking woman, hair scraped back from her face in a no-nonsense fashion. The Commander moved her mouth into something that looked just like a smile, but it was a polite smile, not a real one. When she said, "Pleased to meet you," Abbie almost blurted out, "No, you're not." She stopped herself in time and managed a nod.

The man next to Ivanova had been glancing impatiently at the door, as though he were waiting for someone more interesting than Abbie Becker to come through it. Marcus introduced him as "Mr. Garibaldi, our Chief of Security." This was the man who wanted her to look at the pictures. Abbie's stomach tightened. Mr. Garibaldi almost looked as though he were about to make fun of her. He smiled—a genuine smile, though by now she was too nervous to realize it—and said, "How you doing, Punkin?"

"My name isn't Punkin," she said stiffly. "It's _Abbie_."

"Sorry. How you doing, Abbie?"

Just then she heard the door behind her hiss open, footsteps come through it, and a voice she knew say, "Got here as quick as I could, Chief, there was a real jam-up down at Customs." She spun around, stared at the newcomer, and went cold. _It was that Nightwatch man!_

Marcus looked quickly from Abbie's white face to Zack Allan, then back to Abbie. The girl was beginning to tremble. It crossed Marcus' mind to wonder what idiot had decided to include Zack in this meeting. Then Abbie bolted for the door, and he had to move like lightning to intercept her.

"Let me go!" she cried, trying to dart past him, but he was too quick for her and blocked her way again. Without actually touching her, he put out his hands to broaden the barricade and convey that he wasn't going to let her get past. "Abbie," he said, very calmly and quietly. "This running-off business has got to stop. I know you're upset, but—"

"You don't _understand!_" In everything they'd been through, it was the first time he had heard her whine. "I thought you'd _understand_."

With a quick glance he saw that Zack had retreated to the farthest corner of the office. The command staff stood motionless, watching. Thank God, none of them seemed about to interfere. He was able to return his full attention to Abbie.

"You're right, love," he said. "I don't understand. Help me. Tell me what's wrong." With a gesture, he motioned her to the small sofa past Sheridan's desk. Unwillingly, she moved to it and sat beside him, squirming. Dr. Franklin moved unobtrusively to stand by one door, Garibaldi to the other.

Abbie, twisting her hands together in an agony of anxiety, said, "If I see the pictures, they'll come _back_."

"Who will come back? You don't mean the Nightwatch?"

"_No_. The _dreams_." She was beginning to pant, as though unseen demons were already chasing her. "I don't want the dreams to come back any more! I don't want to _remember_ that night any more!" Tears began spilling down her face, and she jumped to her feet, unable to sit still a moment longer, poised to flee.

"Abbie, listen. Listen. Look at me," Marcus commanded, reaching out to take hold of her shoulders. The child flinched a little but didn't pull away. Marcus' eyes met hers.

"I understand now," he said. "Abbie—everything that happened that night really happened. You can't change it, you can't make it go away, and you can't forget it. It's a part of you. It's inside you."

She swallowed spasmodically, fighting for self-control. Marcus went on, "The dreams are part of it. They fade, in time, as you grow past it. But trying to make yourself forget won't stop them. Believe me, love, if there were a way to stop those dreams, I'd have found it long ago."

Abbie was calmer now. The tears had stopped and her breath came more quietly. She bit her lip and sniffled.

"I won't let anything hurt you, love, you know that."

"I know," she replied, subdued. She looked over at the blank viewscreen on the wall. A chair was ready for her in front of it. Turning back to Marcus, she made one last appeal. "Do I _have_ to?"

With all his heart, Marcus longed to tell her No. He had a sudden, mad impulse to say, "Of course not," take her hand, and lead her from the room to someplace green and sunlit and safe.

_Two people have died,_ he reminded himself.

But it was no use. Looking at her tear-streaked freckled face, he knew he couldn't bring himself to force her.

"Abbie," he said finally, "I know that terrible things have happened to you. Terrible things are happening all over the station—you remember the evacuation?" She nodded, and he went on, "We're trying to find out who's behind them, but we're not having much luck. You might be able to help us in a way no one else can."

She chewed her lip for a moment, then yielded. "Okay." Momentarily resolute, she turned from him, toward the chair facing the viewscreen. He took his hands from her shoulders, ready to get up and go with her.

She stopped. A great, convulsive sob suddenly shook her from head to foot. With a desolate wail, she turned and flung herself into Marcus' arms.

He was very startled, but almost immediately followed his protective instincts and held her close. The child clutched and clung to him desperately, racked with weeping. Her grief echoed from the walls of the office.

Ivanova shook her head and muttered, "Dammit, I knew this was a mistake."

Gasping for breath, Abbie lifted a ravaged face, mouth working soundlessly for a minute. Then words came, raw with pain. "They c-came—they came in the middle of the night. I was ready for bed. We used to, we used to live behind the sh-shop—" A fresh bout of sobbing swept her. Marcus gently caressed her curls.

"They came—they k-kicked in the door—_he was there!_" she screamed, stabbing a finger in Zack's direction. "Papa told me to stay put. He told me not to come out. I _tried._"

"Of course you did, love," soothingly.

"They asked him—they started asking him questions—about the President—and about who his f-friends were—and what books he sold, and who came in the sh-shop—"

_Typical Nightwatch_, thought Sheridan, swept by a wave of nausea.

"And then they—they started to hit him—" Abbie melted into Marcus' arms, the sobbing words coming faster now. "And I _couldn't _stay put—I tried to make them stop—they were hurting him—!"

Franklin and Garibaldi exchanged a look, remembering her wild, futile attempt to defend Marcus.

"And then That Man—_you_ know the one—he grabbed me—and he _laughed!_ He grabbed me by my th-throat—he started asking me the things—I didn't know what to say to make him stop—" Abbie's breath came in gulps. "Papa tried to help me—and they knocked him down—and kicked him in the s-stomach—"

Marcus cradled her close, rocking her, murmuring endearments. She subsided into wordless sobbing.

Zack Allan, white-faced, gripped Garibaldi's arm. "Chief, I swear to God, I didn't know. They sent me out to stand lookout. Swear to God, I never knew there was a little kid there." He turned to move toward the child. "Listen," he began. Garibaldi grabbed him and hauled him back.

"Good impulse," he said. "Bad timing. Get out of here, Zack. We'll talk later. Go on, beat it." Reluctantly, Zack obeyed.

Ivanova found a box of tissues and brought it to Marcus, who plucked a handful and started dabbing gently at Abbie's face. Her sobs had quieted now to steady weeping. Dr. Franklin, bringing a glass of water, sat beside her on the sofa. "Drink this. That's it," he encouraged her. "That's good." From her haven in Marcus' arms she reached out to take the glass and sip. Her face was red, her eyes swollen almost shut. When she spoke again her voice quivered, but she could complete her sentences without pausing to breathe.

"Before they left, they tore everything off the shelves. They smashed things. When they were gone, Papa said for us to pack and go. We were doing that when we smelled the smoke from the shop." She drank a little more water. "I guess they set it on fire. We got out quick, and Papa took me Downbelow. He said it'd be safe for a few days. I never went back to the shop till the day before yesterday." She handed the glass to Franklin and nestled back against Marcus' damp shoulder.

"First time you've really cried about it, love?" he asked. She nodded, then sat up straight and began, "I'm sorry—"

"Hey," he interrupted her tenderly, laying a finger momentarily on her lips. "From now on, let's save 'I'm sorry' for when you've actually done something wrong, shall we? Nothing to apologize for in mourning your dead." She nodded agreement.

Sheridan cleared his throat. A knot had formed at the pit of his stomach during the girl's recital that he knew would be there a long time. _All this happened on my watch._ "Look, we can do this later," he said.

"No," said Abbie in a small, determined voice. She slid from her place by Marcus and headed for the viewscreen. "I want to help."

She was immediately rewarded by hearing Marcus say, "There's my brave girl," as he came to her side. Garibaldi pulled up a second chair for the Ranger and stationed himself by the main computer console. "Okay, Abbie, here's the deal. You look at the picture and tell me if you've seen the person, just Yes or No. If you're not sure, then tell me so. Any time you want to stop, take a break, let me know. Relax, take your time. Ready?"

"Ready," she replied, settling into one of the chairs. She was revising her opinion of Mr. Garibaldi. He seemed to be friendly—not pretend-friendly, but really friendly. And he'd sent that Nightwatch man away . . . .

It wasn't such a terrible ordeal after all. One face after another appeared on the screen. Most of them were completely unfamiliar. She studied each one and said, "No." Mr. Garibaldi always responded, "Okay." Then the viewscreen would go blank for a few seconds and another face would appear. The other grown-ups—the captain, Commander Ivanova, Dr. Franklin—waited and watched silently, with a scrutiny that would have made her self-conscious were it not for the reassuring presence of Marcus, sitting to her left, watching the faces along with her.

When at last a face she knew came up, she couldn't help but flinch; Marcus reached out and gently laid his hand over hers as she clenched the arm of her chair. "Yes," she said firmly.

"Seen him around lately?" Mr. Garibaldi asked off-handedly.

"I—I'm not sure."

"Okay," he said. "Computer. Save record." And the screen blanked out. That was it. No yelling. No threats. No asking the same question six different ways to make her give answers she didn't know to questions she didn't understand.

After that, it wasn't hard at all. She was able to identify several more faces, and even remember where and when she'd seen a couple of them. At one point, it turned out that Marcus had seen the same man, who he identified as a regular at the Abandon All Hope poker game. ("Loses badly, except when he cheats—which he also does badly.") After each identification, Mr. Garibaldi said "Okay" and saved a computer record.

Several faces after the poker player, Marcus said, "Wait," intently inspecting the image on the screen. "Yes," he said after a moment. "He's got his head shaved now, but that's him. That's the man who tried to stab me."

Abbie felt a cold wave break over her. She could almost see and smell the blood again, and hear Marcus crying out in pain.

This time, instead of saying, "Okay," Mr. Garibaldi read the man's name from the record. "Charles Remmick. Abbie? That ring any bells?"

"N-no."

A pause the length of a heartbeat. Then: "Okay. Computer, save record." Blank screen. "Abbie, you need a break?"

"I'm okay."

"You're sure?" Marcus asked her, and she nodded. Suddenly all she wanted was for this to be over as soon as possible. She didn't understand how it was going to help anybody for her to recognize pictures of Nightwatch men, and she was tired from all the crying she'd done. Now she just wanted to finish with it.

When the long-jawed face with its strong cheekbones and cruel eyes finally flashed onto the screen, the last of Abbie's composure crumbled. She scrambled from her chair to clutch at Marcus again and to hide her face against him. "It's him," she moaned. "The man who grabbed my throat—"

"That's the Hunter," Marcus added. Though he held Abbie tightly, administering comforting pats to her back, his entire attention was riveted to the screen. _Beast,_ he thought. _Child molester. Nightwatch thug._ "The bloody bastard," he said aloud, hardly knowing what words he uttered, consumed for the moment by pure hatred. It was just as well that Abbie couldn't see his face in that moment.

She stirred in his arms, beginning to tremble, and he snapped at Garibaldi, "Take it off screen." With a slight upward quirk of his eyebrows the security chief said neutrally, "Computer, save record" and blanked the screen.

"It's all right, love. All over now," Marcus murmured to the child. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry again, and ventured to look up. The set of Marcus' jaw reminded her of the way he'd looked the day they met, when he'd twisted That Man's arm and flung him away from her. For an instant, she was almost afraid of him. Then he looked at her, and his expression softened.

"We're finished, Mr. Garibaldi. That's all." Though Marcus addressed Mr. Garibaldi, he continued to look at Abbie, and she wondered if he wasn't going to get into trouble, giving orders like that—wasn't the captain supposed to be in charge? But the captain didn't seem to mind. He came over, sat down in the chair Abbie had vacated, and asked her if she were all right.

It was another stupid grownup question, of course—did she _look_ all right?—but she could tell he meant it kindly and answered dutifully, "I'm okay." He was probably a nice man after all. Even the forbidding Commander Ivanova looked softer and more approachable now. Mr. Garibaldi swiveled from his computer console to say, "Abbie, you are one gutsy kid." They were all nice people; but she was too worn out to try being polite now.

"Can we please go?" she asked Marcus.

He sighed, glancing over at Garibaldi, and replied, "I have to stay for a little while and talk to the captain and the others. Why don't you go now, with Stephen. I'll be along when I finish here."

Reluctantly, she let go of him and let Dr. Franklin take her hand. "Don't be too long," the doctor said. As he and Abbie left Sheridan's office, he continued, "Abbie, I know an ice cream store on the Zocalo that's got thirty-seven flavors—" The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the rest of the sentence.

Sheridan went to his desk and sat down heavily. Garibaldi turned back to the computer console. Marcus leaned back in his chair, spent. Ivanova quietly busied herself at the office's thermal unit, making a cup of tea.

Finally, Sheridan broke the silence. "What happened to her parents?"

"Her mother's been dead a long time," replied Marcus. "Her father was killed in a brawl Downbelow. She's never given me details. I hope to God she doesn't know them."

"When was this?"

Marcus shrugged. "Don't know. From the state she'd got into, I'd guess several months."

Ivanova brought the tea over, handed Marcus the cup, and acknowledged his nod of thanks. "So. Now what?" she asked. Her tone lacked its usual businesslike briskness.

"You wanna kill a snake?" said Garibaldi. "Aim for the head." He touched a control and the Hunter's face reappeared on the screen. Garibaldi read from the computer record. "His real name is Jeff Jaeger."

"'Jaeger'?" Ivanova repeated. "That's the German word for 'hunter'."

Garibaldi continued to read from the record. Jeff Jaeger had served with distinction in the Earth-Minbari War, earning three citations for bravery. A member of Garibaldi's Security staff, he had joined the Nightwatch in 2259. Naturally, his Nightwatch service record was classified, accessible only by properly credentialed persons, and only directly from the headquarters of the Ministry of Peace in Geneva. Garibaldi himself remembered Jaeger as a loner, good at his job but not much for friends.

"Computer, access detailed Earthforce service record," Garibaldi said, and glanced at the result. "Yep. Thought I might find this. He's a systems information specialist, Class 7 rating. This guy probably knows enough about computer systems to take the whole station off line." He turned from the console. "I'd say we've found our saboteur."

Sheridan and Ivanova studied the face on the screen. "Oh, and one more thing," Garibaldi said. "According to his record, he's dead."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Marcus, Ivanova, and Sheridan exchanged glances**. Marcus looked back at Jaeger's face on the screen and repeated, "He's dead?"

"For two months, his record says."

"He hides it well."

"Computer," the captain ordered. "On main screen, scan saved records. Vital statistics only." Jaeger's image disappeared and was replaced, in succession, by the faces of the others Abbie and Marcus had identified. Each of them was listed as either dead or expelled from the station.

"You were showing that little girl pictures of people who were supposed to be _dead?_" Ivanova asked.

Garibaldi shrugged. "I pulled the records on all known Nightwatch members, past and present. It's a standard technique. I wanted to see if she was just guessing or if she really knew something. At first, when she ID'd a dead guy, I figured she was maybe guessing. Then she hit a couple more, and Marcus corroborated two of 'em. I saw the pattern. Jaeger must have altered their records."

"That's Nightwatch for you," said Marcus, turning his empty teacup in his hands. "Have to bury them with stakes through their hearts. Like vampires."

"A whole cadre of them, hiding Downbelow," Sheridan mused. "No one's looking for them because they're listed as dead or booted off the station. Working with EarthGov, or on their own—hell, even with the Shadows for all we know—to shut this place down. And the one person who can identify them, once her father dies in a convenient brawl, is a child. Frankly, I'm surprised nothing happened to her."

"The Hun—Jaeger enjoyed terrorizing her too much to give it up," said Marcus. "Besides, she wasn't a real threat to him. Who would've listened to her?"

"You," said Ivanova. "But even then, Jaeger didn't target her. He went for you."

"About that," said Garibaldi. "Marcus, you said you were being watched all day before it happened—even when you weren't Downbelow, right?"

"Right. Jaeger must have contacts throughout the station. Though the only one I'm sure of is Remmick." Marcus knitted his brows thoughtfully. "A few days ago, I followed Remmick to quarters Downbelow. Brown, level five—" After another moment's thought he recited the corridor and room numbers. "Waited for hours, but he didn't come out. Sorry, should've thought of it yesterday."

"No problem. From what I hear, he's not going anywhere." Garibaldi turned back to the console. "Let's finish with the rest of these. Then you go and look after Abbie."

Of the remaining photos, Marcus was able to positively identify only three faces, though two others looked vaguely familiar from the assassination attempt. "Okay," Garibaldi said, blanking the screen for the last time. "Got it. You take it easy for the next couple days. And if you feel eyes on you again, I damn well better hear about it."

Marcus nodded absently, not really listening, and ventured, "I did make it Downbelow yesterday without too much trouble—"

"Medlab. Now," said Sheridan flatly.

Marcus lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and got to his feet. Unexpectedly, Ivanova said, "Would it be all right if I went along?"

Sheridan was surprised. Ivanova didn't routinely seek out Marcus' company. If anything, she tended, unobtrusively, to avoid him; Marcus found her very attractive, and for reasons that were a mystery to Sheridan, that attraction made Ivanova uneasy. Nonetheless, knowing that she never did anything without a good reason, the captain said, "Sure, go ahead."

Marcus, his curiosity pleasantly piqued, waited for Ivanova to speak first as they walked leisurely toward Medlab. When she didn't, he asked, "Don't trust me to get there, is that it?"

Her reply was brusque. "I wanted to ask you something. Where's Abbie staying?"

"Medlab, for now."

"Oh." The commander hesitated, biting her lip pensively and clasping her hands behind her back. "Um, look. I know your quarters are small—I mean, I ought to, I assigned them." She hesitated, then plunged straight into it. "What I mean is—well, why not have her stay with me? Just for a few days," she added hastily. "While you get things sorted out."

Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked at her, a radiant smile slowly warming his face. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really," she replied, annoyed. "What, is it such a surprise that I've got a heart?"

"Not at all!"

"It's just that—" she began, impulsively. Regaining her self-control, she resumed walking toward Medlab, so that he had to follow. "Just that I was about Abbie's age when my mother—when I lost her." She kept her voice controlled and avoided looking at him; as though she were afraid that, through her eyes, he'd be able to see past the cool, efficient officer, back twenty years to the betrayed, shattered child whose mother had just taken her own life.

"I'm sorry, Susan." His voice was soft. "I didn't know."

Ivanova went on, almost gruffly, "Besides, it might be more comfortable for her. Staying with a woman, I mean."

"Much more suitable," he agreed, with deliberate dispassion since she didn't seem to welcome his sympathy. But he couldn't help adding, "Bless you, Susan."

"No problem," she replied.

**"I want them all," said Sheridan**. "Not just Jaeger. I want every last one of them."

Garibaldi nodded agreement. The two officers were flipping from one image to the next of the newly-identified Nightwatch cadre, studying and memorizing the faces. "Best way would be to send in a mole," Garibaldi said, "but that'd take too much time. Jaeger could be planning to go for the defense grid next. We could have an Earthforce fleet jumping out at us to take the station back."

"Besides," Sheridan said, "he might know by now that he's tipped his hand. We have to assume that he knows that Marcus survived and that we've talked to Abbie."

Garibaldi pondered, rubbing his lower lip thoughtfully. "Okay. I'll dupe these pictures and send some of my people scouting Downbelow. We'll find out when and where to hit 'em to get as many as we can at one time. I'll get some of the Narn security in on it, too. Betcha Jaeger can't tell one Narn from another."

"Michael, I don't doubt your team's abilities for an instant," said Sheridan. "But I don't want to take any chances. I'll talk to Delenn. We'll send a Ranger or two down there to supplement your people's efforts. They'll report to you, of course."

"Sounds good." Garibaldi set the computer to start duplicating the images. "Captain, one more thing—Marcus and Abbie. Jaeger could try something, just out of spleen. I better have an eye kept on 'em both, just in case."

"Agreed," Sheridan said. Just then his comlink sounded, and he touched the key. "Go."

"Ivanova here," her voice said. "Request permission to go shopping, sir."

**Abbie wondered when she'd wake up to find herself on the lumpy pallet in Bettina's storeroom**. She was, at last, alone in Susan's quarters. She was supposed to be unpacking things but in actuality she huddled amidst packages on the sofa, biting her nails,

This whole day felt like a crazy dream. A giddy, joyful dream at first, watching Marcus wake and serving him his breakfast. Then the familiar nightmare—familiar, but always harrowing—in which she relived That Night. That had been muted, a little, by Marcus. Afterwards, a numb, bewildering interval during which Dr. Franklin tried gently to coax her into naming her favorite ice cream. Unable to decide, she'd accepted his selection, strawberry. As soon as the dish arrived, she wished she'd asked for pistachio, but felt too ungrateful and ashamed to mention it.

The doctor had taken her back to Medlab and tucked her into bed. To her own surprise, she'd dropped straight off and slept dreamlessly, waking to joy again because Marcus was sitting patiently by her bed.

Then everything had gone unreal again. Marcus suggested that she leave Medlab, and him, to go stay with the formidable _Commander Ivanova_. She agreed—what else could she do? Marcus seemed to think it was a wonderful idea, and assured her over and over that she could still spend most of her time with him. Abbie couldn't tell whether Ivanova was offering her hospitality because she _wanted_ to or because she felt she _ought_ to. But when Marcus said, "I think you'd be more comfortable there, love," Abbie was undone. When he called her "love", she could refuse him nothing.

When Ivanova said, "Let's get your things," Abbie was ready to die of shame. Except for the new clothes she was wearing, Papa's shirt, and the six books, she didn't have any things. Her old, shabby clothes had been thrown out. Even the nightgown, comb, and toothbrush she'd been using were Medlab issue. Marcus quietly explained, looking suddenly guilty, as though Abbie's poverty were _his_ fault. And then Commander Ivanova stunned Abbie by smiling—_really _smiling this time—and saying to him, "You haven't exactly had much free time. And it's not as if a man would even know what to shop for."

"I find that remark incredibly biased and insensitive," said Marcus, pretending to be offended. And Ivanova laughed and calmly used her handlink to ask the captain's permission to go shopping!

Still apprehensive about being alone with Ivanova, Abbie had hoped Marcus would come along. But Dr. Franklin vetoed that idea and sent Marcus back to his own room to rest. (How _could_ she have forgotten that he was still recovering from his wound?) At the last minute, she impulsively ducked into his room—he was already in bed—and held out the _Jungle Books_. "Want to borrow this?"

"Thanks, I will. It'll be a treat. Haven't read it in years." He accepted the book, settled comfortably against his pillows, and said, "Go on, now, love. Have fun. Come back tonight for dinner?"

"Okay." She hesitated. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"Positive. I just need to rest a bit. See you later," and he gently tweaked one of her curls.

The shopping trip was the strangest part of the whole strange day. Before she knew it, Abbie had permission to call her hostess "Susan", and was practically drowning in Susan's generosity. A week's worth of underwear and socks. A fuzzy robe, a pair of slippers, _two_ nightgowns. A pair of slacks, _two_ tops. A pair of _shoes_. Susan tended to pick the things out—she seemed to know just what she wanted and exactly where to find it. Luckily, everything she suggested was to Abbie's taste, because in her stunned gratitude the child could only nod wordlessly every time Susan said, "What about this?"

On their way back to Susan's quarters, both of them laden with bags and bundles, the Commander said, "Almost forgot!" and led Abbie into a little sundries shop for a brush-and-comb set and a toothbrush. As Susan shifted her armful of packages, laid the items down on the counter, and pulled out her credit chit yet again, Abbie's eyes stung with sudden tears. All this. All for her. _And Bettina threw me out for borrowing a piece of soap._

"Are you okay?" Susan asked as they laid their packages down on her sofa. "I know, you need lunch. Let me fix something quick, and then I have to get back on duty." She moved toward the kitchenette. "Requests?"

Abbie shook her head. "I'm sorry—" She stopped, remembering she wasn't supposed to say that any more. "I mean—you spent an awful lot of money on me—"

Ivanova quickly set down the bowl she was holding and went to sit by the child. "Hey, it's okay. Don't worry about it. That was a mitzvah."

"A what?"

"A mitzvah. It's a Hebrew word. It means a—a good deed—like a blessing." Ivanova found it difficult to put into words and sought an example. "When you loaned Marcus your book, that was a mitzvah. You knew he might get lonely, so you helped him out, and you were happy to do it. See what I mean?"

"But that was just a _loan_. And all this—" Abbie gestured to the array of packages. She didn't want to argue with Susan, it seemed so ungrateful, but she did want to understand.

"Well, mitzvahs come in all sizes. Come on, let's fix lunch and I'll show you where things are."

Lunch was quick and simple, just sandwiches. Then, with a parting admonition to Abbie to "make yourself at home, and call me if you need anything," Ivanova left to return to duty.

Abbie sat among the packages, biting her nails. This restored world, this world of mitzvahs, where people helped each other just to help—

"Please, she whispered against her fingertips. "Please. Please let this be for real."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**When Sheridan came to Delenn's quarters to consult with her, she listened without question or interruption as he described the revelations Abbie had made and the information they'd discovered as a result.** When at last he finished, she immediately agreed that one or two Rangers should be summoned to the station to aid in the search for Jaeger. In light of Jaeger's hatred of aliens, they decided to call on Human rather than Minbari Rangers. Delenn was sure she could have them aboard within a day.

"So," she said. "It seems that Mr. Garibaldi was correct. This is not from the Shadows, but from one malevolent Human."

"Yeah. Count our blessings," the captain replied bitterly. "Michael was right about something else, too. One malevolent Human can cause a hell of a lot of destruction and misery, with no help at all from the Shadows." He paced up and down the room, shaking his head. "Dammit, Delenn—if you could have heard how that little girl was crying. I felt so—so—"

"Responsible?"

"Exactly!"

Watching him, Delenn commented, "Marcus felt much the same."

Sheridan whirled toward her. "Marcus is not in command of this station! _I am!_ And _as_ the commanding officer of this station, I am responsible for every single God-damned thing that _happens_ on this station!" From the height of his rage, he abruptly saw that Delenn was watching him with tranquil, shining eyes, the soft suggestion of a smile curving her lips.

"Don't you understand?" he demanded. "Jaeger and his men terrorized that child and her father. They destroyed her whole world! _And it happened on my watch!_"

"Yes," she agreed. "It was done, as you say, on your watch." Her voice grew stern. "By men who worked by night, under cover of darkness. By men who concealed the foul thing they had done in every way they could. Who eventually hid themselves, who declared themselves dead, because they knew what would happen to them if you learned of it. They worked in darkness, and then fled before your light."

He gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. "And is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Delenn tilted her head regarded him curiously. "Of course not. If words could make you 'feel better' about such a thing, you would not be John Sheridan. But it is the truth; and, before you condemn yourself, you must take that truth into account."

Sheridan stood silent for several minutes. Delenn watched as his hands unclenched and his shoulders relaxed. His face and jaw remained set; then, one corner of his mouth rose in a hint of a half-smile.

"I guess I'd better not waste time kicking myself," he said. "When those Rangers arrive, let Garibaldi and me know right away."

"Of course."

He laid his hands on her shoulders, held her lightly for a minute, and left.

**In reaction to the rigors of the morning, Marcus experienced a temporary but near-total physical and mental eclipse.** Three pages into the _Jungle Books_, he felt compelled to close the volume, lay it carefully aside, and close his eyes to rest them for a minute. An hour later he woke, feeling somewhat refreshed, and tried to give serious thought to what he should do next for Abbie.

But his mind remained blank; not the wordless calm of meditation, but pure, teeth-gritting frustration, the sense of facing a blank brick wall. Finally, he gave up the effort and resigned himself to convalescence. After all, he reminded himself, he was much better today than he'd been yesterday, and he'd be better still tomorrow. Susan's generosity had won him a couple days' grace. Probably the best thing he could do for Abbie now was to do nothing at all.

The resolution was more easily made than kept. He resumed his reading and was interrupted, briefly, by a nurse who took his vital signs and changed his dressings. Marcus was quick to note every sign of improvement: the dressing change was a noticeably less painful process today than it had been yesterday, the scratch on his arm hardly counted as a real wound at all, and when the nurse said, "You're doing just fine," she really seemed to mean it. _Tomorrow_, he thought. _I'll be able to take care of everything tomorrow._ He reminded himself again that now it was time for him to be idle, and to rest. He picked up the book, determined to make the hours pass. Gradually, he became absorbed in the familiar tales.

He was in the middle of "Toomai of the Elephants" when Garibaldi poked his head in and said without preliminary, "Good, you're awake. Where's Abbie?"

"With Susan," Marcus replied, abandoning Toomai and the elephants at once. "Staying with her for a few days. Why?"

"'Cause she doesn't need to get mixed up in this. Charlie Remmick just got caught trying to swipe painkillers from an aid station Downbelow. They're bringing him in to Medlab Three. Seems he got his leg busted a couple days ago." Garibaldi's face was deadpan. "I thought you might like to have a little chat with him. I'll go clear it with Franklin."

Convalescence and restful idleness be damned! By the time Garibaldi had returned with Franklin's grudging permission, Marcus was up and dressed, the _denn'bok _tucked neatly away and ready to hand. He was grateful that the security chief was including him in this interrogation and wondered what, specifically, his role was to be.

"How does Remmick say his leg was broken?" he asked as they went toward the lift.

"It was the damnedest thing. Seems he got mugged. He's not sure where it happened. Never saw who did it. Can't explain why he's let it go for two days without reporting the mugging or getting the leg treated. He rigged up a sort of crutch to get to the aid station."

"You could pilot the _White Star_ through the holes in that story," Marcus commented. "I take it he doesn't know we're on to him?"

"Don't see how he can be. Now, seeing that you and he have what you might call a special relationship, I thought you could maybe persuade him to cooperate with us."

"With pleasure."

"Okay. So far, he hasn't even given his right name. Just follow my lead. You're the one he tried to kill, so I guess you get to be the bad cop."

Remmick had been brought to the security ward of Medlab Three, where Zack Allan waited outside the door to report to his chief. Marcus stiffened a little at the sight of him, and for a minute the two men's eyes met. Zack hooked a finger under his collar and tugged it uncomfortably. Garibaldi, of course, noticed the silent interchange, but for now he chose to ignore it. "Okay, Zack, status?"

"He's still sticking to the fake name, and the mugging story. Dr. Sanchez did a nerve block or something, so the leg's not bothering him as much now. But she says we should make it quick so she can operate."

"Yeah? Tell her to take her time scrubbing up. You ready, Marcus?"

"Ready."

"Okay. I go in first."

Even behind his back, as he entered the ward, Garibaldi could feel the hostility crackling between Marcus and Zack.

Remmick waited on an exam table, the only patient in the security ward. The head of the table had been elevated so that he was half sitting up. A sheet-draped steel frame enclosed and concealed the injured leg. Remmick's unshaven face was pasty and drawn, and sweat gleamed through two-day-old stubble on his scalp. Dark circles, like bruises, were smudged beneath his exhausted eyes.

Garibaldi stepped in and said, "Robinson, isn't it?" using the alias Remmick had given.

"Yeah. Bill Robinson."

"Michael Garibaldi, chief of security. I just need to ask you a couple of questions." Garibaldi settled into a chair with the air of a man who intends to stay put.

Remmick ran his tongue nervously over dry lips. "I already answered about a million questions. They're gonna have to operate on my leg."

Garibaldi regarded the shrouded limb with an expression of deep sympathy and clucked his tongue. "Yeah, that looks bad. We sure want to get the son-of-a-bitch who did that to you," he added for the benefit of Marcus, hovering just outside the door listening for his cue. "Day before yesterday, was it?"

"Yeah. I've already answered all these questions."

Garibaldi shrugged. "Routine, you know?—how many of 'em did you say there were?"

"I, ah, I dunno."

"Can you give me a description?"

"No. I already told that other guy, I didn't _see_ anyone."

"Uh-huh," Garibaldi nodded, taking notes industriously . "So how do you know how many of 'em there were?"

"I said I don't _know_ how many!" the prisoner protested.

"Okay," Garibaldi soothed him. "Try and stay calm, okay? Now, where did this happen?"

The answer came back on a note of near-hysteria. "I told that guy already! I _don't remember!_"

Garibaldi looked up, keeping his eyes on Remmick's face, and said reassuringly, "That's okay. I brought someone I think maybe can help." He heard footsteps behind him as Marcus took his cue and made his entrance.

As Garibaldi watched, Remmick's pupils dilated wide. His jaw sagged, his pallor took on an even more pasty aspect, and he stared like one hypnotized at his intended victim. Marcus stood relaxed and confident, to all appearances whole and unharmed, bearing no resemblance to a man who'd been brought to the brink of death two days before.

"Hello," said Marcus affably.

The prisoner pulled his jaw shut, looked at Garibaldi, and said, "I—I've never seen this man before in my life."

"Really?" The security chief ostentatiously jotted another note. "See, he was mugged a couple days ago too. There's been a whole bunch of assaults Downbelow. I'm looking for a connection."

"I've told your people everything I remember." Remmick had brought his voice under control, but the sweat was beading fast on his forehead and upper lip.

Garibaldi leaned forward, concern personified. "Say, you don't look so good. Should I call the doc or something? Tell you what, you two compare notes. I'll go see if I can get you a drink or something. Okay? I'll be back in a minute."

Remmick's jaw wobbled in protest, but no words came. Garibaldi got up and turned his back, momentarily blocking the prisoner's view of Marcus. The Ranger briefly raised one hand, spreading the fingers once, then again. With a nod, Garibaldi left the ward.

Ten minutes; Marcus calculated he could win Remmick's cooperation that quickly. Garibaldi, a natural pessimist, decided to give him fifteen.

When the door had shut behind Garibaldi, Marcus turned to the man on the table. "Good job, Charlie—may I call you 'Charlie'? Or do you go by 'Charles'? We never were properly introduced before you tried to murder me."

A hoarse reply, fueled by the dogged, desperate courage of a trapped animal: "I've never seen you before. Never."

"Good. Very good! You stick to that story, Charlie." Marcus leaned casually back against a countertop near the exam table, arms folded across his midriff, and slipped the pike into his right hand. "Obviously, Mr. Garibaldi hasn't anything concrete against you. If he had, you'd have been charged by now. So—the only way he can get you for me to give you to him. And I just might decide to forget your face."

"I tell you I don't—"

_Hiss!_ The _denn'bok_ sprang to life in Marcus' hand. With a fluid movement he spun away from the counter. The pike whistled a circle in the air and hurtled down toward the frame protecting Remmick's broken leg. With superb control, Marcus stopped it just as it touched the frame, which vibrated faintly.

"Recognize me now, Charlie?"

Remmick stared at the pike in glassy-eyed horror. Before his eyes, it vanished.

"As I was saying," Marcus resumed genially. "We'll stick to your story. You've never seen me, I've never seen you. Mr. Garibaldi has nothing, and you walk out of here. Well—not _walk_, exactly. But you get the idea."

Remmick transferred his stare from the frame to Marcus' face and croaked, "Why?"

"Very simple. If Mr. Garibaldi gets you, you get a nice fair trial that follows all the rules. And if you give him something he wants, like—oh, I don't know—let's say information on Jeff Jaeger—the chances are good that he'll help you cut a deal with the Ombuds. Something like an assault conviction instead of attempted murder. All that, and a nice safe cell."

Marcus drew close to the table, looked down at Remmick, and went on very softly. "I'm not willing to settle for that, Charlie. Just stick to your story. We've never met. Mr. Garibaldi has to let you go. _And then you're mine._"

"N-no. You can't—"

"Can't I?" Marcus' voice was suddenly light, and he strolled casually to lean against the counter again. "Who's going to stop me? Jaeger?" _Hiss!_ The pike reappeared in his hand. He reached it forward, toward the frame.

"Don't," Remmick pleaded, flinching. "Please, don't."

Marcus caught the sheet with the tip of the pike and flicked it off the frame, exposing Remmick's hideously swollen and discolored leg. "Doesn't look as though you've got any friends left, Charlie. And according to your records, you're already dead. So—a nice clear playing field for me." He retracted the _denn'bok_, tucked it away, and came forward to meticulously replace the sheet over the frame.

Remmick's throat muscles worked. "Listen," he rasped. "I'll cut you a deal."

"A deal?" Marcus leaned up against the counter again. He was tiring. His side had begun to throb in reaction to all this moving around, though he'd spared the wound as much as he could. "For what? What d'you have that I could possibly want?"

"Jaeger. I can give you Jaeger."

Marcus gave a derisive snort.

"I can!" Remmick insisted in a shaking voice. "Where he goes, times, places—you want him, he's yours!"

"But I don't want him," Marcus lied. "Sorry. Not interested."

"He was the one wanted you dead!"

"Was he," Marcus responded, with a show of interest, and he watched hope began to dawn on Remmick's face. "Or so you say. But, then, you were the one with the knife. I think I'll be satisfied with you."

And with that he fell silent, deaf to the prisoner's desperate, whispered pleas. He took out the _denn'bok_, toyed with it idly for a moment, and began switching it open and shut, open and shut. The weapon produced a rhythmic _k'snick, k'snick_ as it expanded and contracted. Marcus, with nothing to do now but wait for Garibaldi, found the sound relaxing. Remmick eventually gave up and lay silent on the exam table. His wide, bloodshot eyes were riveted to the opening and closing, re-opening and re-closing, of the pike.

Garibaldi's indomitably cheerful voice jarred the stillness as he came back in. "Sorry it took me so long. Can you believe it, I can't find a doctor in this whole place who'll tell me if you can have something to drink—"

"I don't want a doctor," Remmick burst out. "Get me an advocate, dammit! I want to make a statement. I want to make a statement _now_. Get me a God-damned advocate. And get that maniac the hell out of here!"

Garibaldi, with a convincing show of surprise, said, "Okay. Okay, you want an advocate, I can get you one."

"Now!"

Since the security chief had started the wheels turning to find a public advocate as soon as he'd heard Remmick was in custody, one was quickly produced. Marcus left the room, feigning disgusted disappointment, nodding curtly when Garibaldi asked him to "stick around a few minutes—I might need to ask you something."

Zack Allan, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot, eaten alive by guilt, was waiting outside the door for him.

**Two days before, when the little girl had panicked and run from him, Zack had been baffled.** His bewilderment had soon been subsumed by the business of the investigation: the potter to be interviewed, blood samples to be collected from corridor and plaza, the knife to be bagged, all the physical evidence to be logged in and processed by the lab. He'd wound up hardly giving the kid a second thought. Until this morning, when the mere sight of him had sent her into screaming hysteria.

Until this morning, he'd managed to forget the raid on Becker's Books.

Sure, Nightwatch had sounded great—safeguarding Earth's interests, which was his job anyway, right?—plus an easy extra fifty credits a week. But Zack Allan wasn't cut out for what Nightwatch proved to be. His essentially generous and good-hearted nature was unable to dedicate itself to a continual search for disloyalty, trying to find sinister hidden meanings behind the most casual comments, and especially to things like the bookstore raid. Eventually, his stomach had turned against the whole deal.

_I didn't know_, Zack reminded himself now. _I didn't _know._ When I found out what it really meant, I got out._

He'd been reminding himself all day, and it hadn't helped a bit. What he really wanted to do was find the kid, apologize, try to make her see how sorry he was, how rotten he felt. Except that the sight of him would send her running for cover . . . .

When Marcus stepped out of the security ward, alone, then stopped to wait for something, Zack decided to seize the opportunity. It didn't occur to him to consider what state of mind the Ranger might be in immediately following an interrogation. Marcus was the person the kid trusted; therefore, he was Zack's key to making his apologies and getting himself off the hook. Zack cleared his throat.

At the sound, Marcus glanced over with a fleeting scowl.

"You, um, got him talking, hunh?" Zack ventured.

Marcus didn't answer immediately. For a full minute he stood contemplating Zack, as though he were deciding whether or not to favor him with a reply. "We'll have to see," he said at last.

Subject closed.

Zack tugged at his collar again and plowed on, "Um, look—Marcus—about the kid—"

"'The kid', as you call her, has a name."

"Yeah—I mean, sure she does—" Zack stammered, trying urgently to remember the kid's name, or whether he'd ever even heard it.

"Abbie," Marcus supplied, elaborately helpful. "Her name is Abbie."

"Yeah, right, sure. Abbie. I wanted to—I mean, I know I can't talk to her—" Zack floundered to a halt.

Marcus just looked at him, steadily, with undisguised disdain.

"What I mean is—look, tell her I'm sorry, okay?"

"'Sorry,'" Marcus repeated. "For what?"

"For—for—" Zack found himself increasingly tongue-tied. "Oh, c'mon. You know."

"For helping destroy her life, is that it? 'Sorry'?"

That wasn't fair. That was going way too far. "Hey, I was standing lookout, okay? I never even knew there was a kid there."

The protest was met with silence again, and the look.

With mounting frustration, Zack said, "Jaeger put me on lookout first thing. I was just _there_."

"Just following orders?"

"_Yes!_" An instant too late, Zack realized that he'd just been suckered. That ancient excuse had been offered over centuries for each new despot's atrocities. "I mean, _no!_ I mean—"

He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Remmick if this was what dealing with Marcus had been like for him.

Trying hard to calm down and start over, Zack said, "Look, I didn't _do_ anything, okay?"

The silence again, and the look. Then Marcus spoke. "Mr. Allan. All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."

This was impossible! Zack knew he wasn't getting anywhere, but still he pressed on. "Look, all I'm asking is—if you could just tell her for me—"

"Mr. Allan," Marcus interrupted, and his quiet voice cut like a sword. "I am not a diplomatic courier. I don't carry messages. Neither am I a priest, so if it's absolution you're looking for, I suggest you talk to Brother Theo." He took a single step closer. "All I have to say to you, is this: Salve that laggard conscience of yours however you can, but not at Abbie's expense. If you try to see her—if you try sending her any messages—if you attempt to contact her in any way—then, I promise, you will regret the day you were born. I hope I've made myself clear."

Zack trembled with rage. It was all he could do to keep from driving a fist into the condemnatory, bearded face before him.

Stepping back, Marcus said, "If Mr. Garibaldi wants me, he knows where to find me." He turned on his heel and stalked off. Zack glared after him until the long Ranger coat swirled around a corner and vanished. Then, in a futile fury, he turned and kicked the bulkhead.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**The dreams fade, after awhile, but they never go away**.

Ivanova woke abruptly in the middle of the night and lay for a minute, wondering what had roused her. At the sound of a stifled sob, she quickly got up and hurried to Abbie's bed. The child lay prone, face jammed down into her pillow, bony shoulders twitching under the new pink nightgown.

At Ivanova's question, "Abbie? What's wrong?" the girl jerked around, crammed the knuckles of one hand into her mouth, and mumbled, "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you up—"

"Did you have a bad dream, honey?"

Abbie looked away and didn't answer. Ivanova stood helpless, looking down at her. Unexpectedly vivid memories of her own ten-year-old self came flooding back; memories of sorrow too deep to be named, or shared with anyone, let alone a stranger.

With sudden decision she retrieved a pillow from her own bed and came back to Abbie's. "Scoot over," she said. The child obeyed, and Ivanova got in beside her. "If you need me," she said, "I'm right here."

Abbie didn't answer. But as the silent minutes passed, she moved, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly, away from the edge of the bed and closer to Ivanova until their bodies almost but not quite touched. At last her breathing grew deep and regular, and Ivanova knew that she slept. Ivanova herself lay awake a long time, wondering _What in the world have I gotten myself into?_

**The dreams fade, after awhile, but they never go away.**

_Neither sound nor smell travels through the vacuum of space. Yet his head rings with screams, shrieks, the roar of energy weapons. He chokes on the reek of superheated metal, smoke, exploding fuel drums, and charring Human flesh. The tentacled Shadow ships tear the Inhabitants' Platform to ribbons, and the death throes of the Arisia mining colony batter its leader, watching, helpless, from the surface of Arisia itself._

_His dying brother sags in his arms. Over the cacophony, breath rattles and a voice struggles to speak._

_The ships are turning on the planet now, grasping, greedy, insatiable, blinding him with a hellburst of light._

_The voice: "Why didn't you listen? For God's sake, why didn't you—"_

Marcus woke, starting up with a gasp, drenched with sweat, heart hammering.

A dim, silent little room. Subdued light filtering through the round window by his bed. Medlab. Babylon Five. Safety. The attack long over. His colony, his brother, his life, long since destroyed.

Had he cried out this time? Earlier in the night, how long ago he didn't know, he'd awakened shouting his brother's name, which had brought a nurse running. She'd offered pain medication, sleep medication, a sympathetic ear, anything he wanted except the only thing he wanted, which was to be left alone. He'd had a hard time convincing her that he didn't need anything, that it was just a dream, that he was be all right. It would be impossible to persuade her a second time.

Panting, rubbing sweat and tears from his face with a shaking hand, he forced himself to lie down and stay still. Adrenaline was surging through him. He wanted badly to get up and walk, walk for miles until it wore off. But to get up would attract attention. All he could do was lie there, shivering as though he had a fever, wait out the physical reaction, and hope no one would come.

No one came. Gradually his breathing slowed and the pounding of blood in his ears eased. After a few final shudders, he was able to lie still. In a whisper, he asked the computer for the time and learned that it was 3:20 AM.

In two and a half hours, it would be morning. Stay awake two and a half hours, make it safely through the night, and everything would be all right. The thought was nonsense, of course. The concepts of "night" and "morning" meant nothing in the artificial environment of the station. Nonetheless, Marcus seized on the goal of staying awake until six. He shifted gingerly onto his left side, wincing as he settled. The healing wound and the flesh around it were sore; nothing serious, quite tolerable in fact, but sufficiently uncomfortable that it was sure to prevent sleep. He closed his eyes and waited for morning.

**Dr. Franklin, having taken a rare night off, got to his office an hour before his duty shift began.** He glanced through the night reports; then, tossing the papers down onto his desk, he sprang up and headed quickly to Marcus' room.

Marcus, looking haggard but already up and dressed, was shrugging into his coat as Franklin came in. "Going somewhere?" the doctor asked.

"Just my own quarters," was the reply. "Don't worry. I wasn't going to just disappear. I did plan to tell you."

"Come to my office. Let's talk."

Back behind his desk, Marcus restless on a chair in front of him, the doctor picked up a paper and referred to it. "You had a rough night. Want to tell me about it?"

"No, I don't."

Franklin just sat, waiting, until in the prolonged silence Marcus understood that he'd have to tell Franklin _something_ whether he wanted to or not. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Some of my private demons came calling last night. It happens. Nothing to do with you. Let's leave it at that."

"Let's not," said Franklin, glancing at the report again. "You refused any medication, and you were awake half the night. That's not much of a recommendation for an early discharge."

Marcus, after a moment's reflection, said, "I've learnt my own ways of dealing with it, Stephen. None of them involve people coming round and offering me drugs."

"My people are just doing their jobs—" Franklin began.

"I know," Marcus acknowledged quietly. "But I don't need that now. I need privacy. I need to get out of this bloody fishbowl. Oddly enough, I find that I'd rather leave with your approval. But I am leaving."

And that, Franklin knew, was the best he was likely to get. Marcus had never told him much about his past, nor what had led him to seek out and join the Rangers. He certainly wasn't about to volunteer details about the "private demons" that had robbed him of last night's rest.

Still, there were concerns that the doctor had to voice. "Marcus, you'll be a lot better off staying here another couple of days. Everything's starting to heal fine, but it's only been three days. You still need to rest and take it easy. To be honest, I don't think I can trust you to do that on your own."

Marcus, stifling an unexpected yawn, rubbed his aching forehead and tried to find an effective counterargument. None came to mind. Dr. Franklin's handlink suddenly sounded. "Franklin. Go."

"Stephen, it's Ivanova." At the sound of her voice, Marcus snapped to attention. "Where are you?"

"In my office."

"Okay, look. Abbie's on her way down there to have breakfast with Marcus. She might be there already, I think she has her own private jumpgate straight to Medlab. Can I come talk with you for a couple of minutes before I go on duty?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Thanks. I'll be right down."

Franklin cut the transmission, and Marcus complained, "You didn't let me get a word in! If Abbie's having some problem, I ought to know."

"If that's what Ivanova wants to talk to me about, you will."

Now they could hear light, rapid footsteps approaching, skidding to a halt just outside the office door. Franklin, smiling now, called, "Come on in, Abbie."

She edged her way in, saw Marcus, and went to him at once. "I know it's early—I hope it's okay—"

"Always glad to see you, love." (How long will it take before she stops apologizing for her very existence?) "Stephen and I were just talking."

"You two go on, get some breakfast," Franklin said. "Marcus and I can finish up afterwards."

The breakfast, shared at a table in the visitors' area, was a silent meal—not a companionable silence, but the result of the participants' preoccupation with their own troubled thoughts. Ivanova had entered Franklin's office just as Marcus and Abbie were leaving it. Each of them now tried to guess what she'd come to talk with the doctor about, both sure it had to do with Abbie.

Abbie, nonetheless, ate with her usual concentration. Food was food, and it would take a lot more than two days of regular meals before she'd start taking it for granted. Marcus took a bite here and there and tried to revive himself with strong tea.

When most of her plate was empty, the child laid down her fork and said, so softly he almost didn't hear, "Do you think Susan's mad at me?"

Nonplussed, Marcus replied, "Why do you ask? Has she said anything?"

She fiddled with her paper napkin, tearing tiny shreds from one edge. "No, but—I had this dream, the one about Papa. I—I sort of woke her up."

_"The one about Papa". So she has an assortment of nightmares, too._ "What did she say when you woke her, love?"

The napkin was a ragged mess. Abbie swept the fragments together and crushed them into a ball in her hand. "She got in bed with me."

Marcus smiled. "Sounds very comforting. Were you all right then?"

"I guess." Frowning, the child drained the last of her milk and packed the wadded-up napkin into the glass. "Only _babies_ need someone to sleep with them."

"Don't be so sure of that . . . . To answer your question—no, I don't think Susan's mad at you. But I think you're mad at you."

She looked up at him, mouth drawn into a tight, defiant line. He went on, "You're allowed to need help sometimes, Abbie. Everyone does. Even grown-ups."

Abbie gave her quick, don't-care shrug. "Anyway," she said, and, wisely, Marcus decided to drop the subject. Abbie picked up her fork and consumed the remainder of her breakfast. Abruptly, she demanded, "If I ask you if you're okay, are you gonna tell me you're 'just tired' again?"

"Didn't sleep very well myself last night," he admitted readily. "I'm much better, though. Trying to get Stephen to let me out of here, actually. That's what he and I were talking about when you came in."

And what was there in that, he wondered, to spark so much happiness and hope in her eyes?

**Ivanova spent about twenty minutes in her conference with Franklin.** On leaving his office, feeling somewhat relieved, she sauntered to the visitors' area. As she'd expected, Marcus and Abbie were sharing a table. Both of them sat silently, Marcus' attention momentarily focused on refilling his cup with tea. Ivanova was just in time to see Abbie slip something from the edge of Marcus' half-empty plate and quickly put it into her pocket.

She restrained herself from saying anything, even from asking the child if she were still hungry, and cleared her throat deliberately. Marcus glanced up; Abbie, startled, almost jumped. "Whenever you two are done, Franklin wants to see you," Ivanova said. "See you tonight when I get off duty, Abbie. Have a good day."

Marcus got to his feet at once, having eaten all he could. Abbie cringed inwardly as they abandoned the table and the plate with so much left on it.

As they came in, Franklin was busily writing at his desk, scribbling on a small pad and tearing off the sheets one by one. Three already lay on the desktop. He waved them to chairs, completed a fourth sheet and snapped it from the pad. "Okay," he said. "Discharge medications. You're paroled."

"Told you I was better," Marcus grinned at Abbie, who'd taken her post standing by his chair rather than sitting. He took more pleasure in her pure delight than in his own recovered freedom.

"Don't get cocky," the doctor admonished him, picking up the four small pages and holding them like a hand of cards. "You're on parole, and there are conditions. These two medications—" he held up two sheets— "you've been getting here: preslecomp, to build your blood back up, and an anti-infective, just to play safe. You keep on taking both, as directed—not negotiable." Holding up the other two slips, he went on. "Pain medication, to take as needed. A mild hypnotic—that's a sleeping pill, Abbie—also to take as needed. You keep these on hand and _use_ 'em if you need to. You take it easy, get lots of rest, and stay out of Downbelow. Be here tomorrow morning at nine sharp so I can change the dressing. Those are the conditions."

"No argument from me, Stephen."

"Think you can hold him to all that, Abbie?"

Glowing with pride, so excited she could hardly stand still, she nodded raptly.

"Good. Here, do me a favor." Franklin held out the four prescriptions. "Take these to the dispensary and bring back the medications. Any of the nurses can tell you where it is. Can you do that for me?"

"Of _course_," said Abbie, with dignity, as though to remind him again that she wasn't a baby. She accepted the prescriptions, said, "I'll be right back," and was off.

"You're making Abbie my watchdog?" Marcus protested as soon as the child was out of earshot.

"Yep," was the placid reply. "You'll do for her what you won't for yourself."

"You have the mind of a Golian spice-smuggler, d'you know that?"

"Thanks. Listen, we've got about twenty minutes before Abbie's back with those meds, and there's something we need to talk about." Franklin leaned forward, elbows on the desktop, and told Marcus what Ivanova had told him: how she'd been wakened in the night, the helplessness she felt in the face of Abbie's inconsolable grief. Ivanova thought that the child needed counseling of some sort, and had asked if Franklin could arrange something.

"And can you?"

"I could, yes. And I agree that she needs it. Trouble is, I don't think she's ready, not to open up and confide in a stranger."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"We've already done it," Franklin said.

The statement was met by a look of blank incomprehension.

"We've just arranged for her to spend a lot of time with the one person she really trusts." Franklin waited a moment to let it sink in. Marcus regarded him steadily, realized he was serious, and slowly shook his head.

"I don't know, Stephen. Never been trained for this sort of thing. Suppose I make some ghastly mistake?"

"Relax. You won't. Whatever you've been doing seems to be helping her. Remember—yesterday, when she was finally able to start grieving, you were the one she turned to."

Marcus remained silent, still deeply doubtful.

A beep: Franklin's handlink. It was Sheridan. "Dr. Franklin, I'm just checking to see if your med-evac teams are still on alert."

"Yes. Why?"

"It might be nothing. There are some minor glitches in some systems in Green and Grey sectors. I thought you should know, in case another emergency comes up."

"Understood. We'll be ready."

Franklin linked off, looked across the desk at his patient, and said sharply, "It's not your problem any more, Marcus. You've got a new assignment, and we can handle this."

"Understood," Marcus said, raising his hands in surrender. But he couldn't help adding, "Very profitable, the Golian spice trade. I've got some contacts. Let me know if you want me to set you up!"

**The Hunter had given his orders.** As always he expected them to be obeyed without question. He was working and didn't want to be disturbed. Three times a day, one of his subordinates was supposed to bring a meal on a tray, remove the remnants of the previous meal, and leave without bothering him with trivial greetings or attempts at conversation. If he wanted something, if he needed something, he'd tell them to get it.

Such was the respect in which his followers held him that no one thought to question his instructions. The former Nightwatch members who made up his cadre hung on his words with messianic fervor. Already he had enabled them to evade two successive purges of the Nightwatch by the renegade John Sheridan. He wasn't afraid to come out and say what everybody already knew: Alien races weren't to be trusted. Earth was actively in danger from their influence. The price of liberty was eternal vigilance.

Battle-scarred veterans of the Earth-Minbari War nodded agreement when the Hunter challenged anyone to tell him how, with the sole exception of Centauri jumpgate technology, Humans had ever benefited from contact with aliens. Humans became embroiled in aliens' wars and exposed to alien diseases, while real problems, _Human_ problems, went neglected and unsolved at home. It was time—no, it was past time—for the alien influence to end.

The cadre believed him wholeheartedly, ran the Hunter's errands and supplied him with intelligence. It also kept control over the rabble—losers, dust addicts, and other Lurkers, looking for scapegoats to blame for their failed and wasted lives, who followed the Hunter because he offered those scapegoats: every alien race. The cadre lived and worked for the day the Hunter promised would come. The day on which John Sheridan and every other renegade Human on Babylon 5 would be brought to book for their disloyalty.

That day was near now, and his current project was designed to actually bring it about. So it was that the members of the cadre kept their scrupulous silence, and that the Hunter didn't learn that Charles Remmick had disappeared.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Was it his imagination?** Was she already heartier, more energetic, freer somehow, after only two days' release from Downbelow? Marcus had plenty of time to speculate as Abbie skipped on ahead of him. It seemed as though the only thing keeping her feet on the deck was the weight of the _Jungle Books_, which he'd finished last night and returned to her this morning. Without that slight anchor, he could imagine her floating in air for very joy.

They were headed for his quarters to drop off the analgesic and the sleep medication, which Marcus didn't plan to use during their day together. He could hardly conceive of a more mundane errand. It must be that Abbie was already starting to believe that she really was safe now which made her so—so—_incandescent_, that was the word. He kept her in sight, not bothering to hurry after her, confident that she'd return to him of her own accord.

Yes, she'd turned and was coming scampering back, running one finger along the blue line on the wall that identified the sector they were in. "Is it much farther?"

"Not very."

She contained herself and adjusted her pace to walk beside him, hugging the book to her chest. "I've hardly ever been in Blue sector. Papa and I used to live behind the shop in the Zocalo," she said. "There's something else there now. A dress shop." Her radiance dimmed a little at the thought. She loosened her grasp on the book, tentatively extended her hand to take his, then apparently changed her mind and clasped the book again.

There was nothing Marcus could say. They continued in silence until he said, "Here," and entered the access combination to the place he steadfastly refused to call his home.

He'd had no home since the destruction of the Arisia colony, and he planned to keep it that way, at least for now. When the word came to his lips, or even to his mind, he reminded himself that Babylon 5 was just a posting, as Zagros 7 had been before it. Until the Darkness was defeated, a Ranger's place was wherever present duty called. To that end, he'd learned to travel very lightly. Given five minutes and a single carryall, he could pack everything he owned and walk away from his quarters forever without a backward glance. Absent the five minutes and the carryall, he could leave with nothing more than his _denn'bok_, his Ranger brooch, and the clothes on his back, and be content. He had learned the bitter lesson well. Little is necessary, and nothing is permanent.

None of this was consciously on his mind as he stood aside and gestured Abbie through the door ahead of him, but it was reflected in the austerity of the small room she entered. There was no decoration, unless you counted the Valen shrine on the right-hand wall as you entered. The room itself seemed reasonably spacious, but only because it was almost completely unfurnished. A station-issue armchair, side table, and table lamp were tucked into one corner by the Babcom screen. A low, narrow chest, whose padded lid served as a bench, stood against the wall opposite the door. Just to the right of the door as one entered was a small modular cube which could serve as table, footstool, or extra chair as needed. Add a microscopic bathroom, a single thermal plate mounted by a shelf, and a back chamber barely large enough to accommodate a narrow, station-issue bed, and Marcus' quarters were complete. The whole setup would probably have fitted into the living room of Ivanova's command suite.

Marcus, following Abbie into the room, turned briefly toward the shrine to honor Valen's memory with the ritual Minbari open-palmed salute. He crossed the room in three strides and slipped into the bath. "Won't be a moment, love, and then we can go wherever you like."

Taking the drug vials from his pockets, he considered briefly, drew a cup of water from the dispenser, and swallowed one of the pain capsules. Not that he was more than mildly uncomfortable, of course. The single capsule would last him the day. But there was no point in letting himself get uncomfortable later on; that would distress Abbie.

From the moment he stepped into the bathroom to the moment he emerged, no more than ninety seconds elapsed.

Something terrible must have happened in those ninety seconds.

Abbie stood in the middle of his spartan living room, clutching the book to her chest. She looked stunned, disoriented. Gravity-bound once more, all joy gone; tears welling in the hazel eyes. In ninety seconds.

"Abbie, love, whatever's wrong?" he asked, genuinely alarmed, going to her at once. She looked up at him, resolutely blinking the tears back. Her reply was barely audible.

"I—I didn't think your quarters would be this _small_."

Why should she care how large or small his quarters were? He knew the answer in less time than it took to ask the question. Barely room for one person; definitely not enough for two. . . . He put a hand on her shoulder and shepherded her to the bench, racking his brain to see if anything he'd said could possibly have been construed as a promise that she'd be coming to live with him. No. Nothing. She'd conjured this up on her own, then. She was still capable of hope.

And he had to destroy it.

She sat on the bench beside him, drooping listlessly, head and shoulders already bowed as she waited for the blow. Marcus tried to draw her close, but she stiffened at his touch and he withdrew his hand at once.

"You asked me once if I had a little girl of my own, remember?"

A nod.

"Well, if I ever do, I hope she'll be a lot like you. Clever, and brave, and fun to be with."

Abbie gave him a sidelong glance, scowling, then turned her head away. Steadily, he went on. "But having a family can't be part of my life now. I'm a Ranger, Abbie. D'you know what that means? Did your father ever say anything about us?"

She shook her head.

"It's a little like being a soldier. And a little like being a spy. I have to go wherever I'm sent. Sometimes I'm away from the station for days or weeks at a time; that's why I don't need much room."

The tears were clinging to her lashes now. She raised a hand and scrubbed them away. "I wouldn't need much room," she murmured. "I'd be okay by myself."

"Maybe so, love. Maybe so. But it wouldn't be best for you. You need someone to be there for you every single day. I can't do that. I wish I could."

She swiped at her eyes again, sniffling hard; Marcus wished she'd stop being quite so brave. She sat in silent thought, staring hard at the impersonal modular cube by the door. At last she said, "Soldiers get killed. So do spies."

"Sometimes." God, how he hated doing this, ruthlessly dismantling everything the child had left to cling to, but what choice did he have? Deny the dangers she already knew existed? Risk her hard-won trust by telling her a lie, even a lie of omission, when she'd been betrayed so often already?

Abbie asked, "Did you get stabbed because of being a Ranger?"

Knowing he was confirming her worst fears, he answered, "Yes."

After another long pause, she cleared her throat and whispered, "Could you—_stop_ being a Ranger?"

"No, love," he answered softly. "Not even for you. You see, I promised my brother—"

He stopped abruptly; that was more than he'd meant to tell her. But it was too late. She was far too intelligent to miss the implications of what he'd just said. Looking up at him, the tears finally spilling down her face, she demanded, "Your brother that died? Was _he_ a Ranger? Was that why he died?"

Marcus ventured putting an arm around her shoulders, and at last she consented to nestle against him. He chose his words carefully, unable to lie to her outright, but putting the least threatening light he could on the truth.

"There was a disaster on the colony where we grew up. A lot of people died. He was one of them." His throat constricted and he couldn't go on. He'd given the account of Arisia to any number of people without being overcome, as a mere recital of biographical fact. Sharing it with someone who had firsthand knowledge of what it meant to lose everyone you cared about was a different matter. In the face of her grief, he couldn't suppress his own.

Abbie suddenly flung her arms around him, hugging him fiercely for a moment. Pain flared from the healing wound. He bit his lip, willing himself not to flinch, accepting the pain as a kind of penance for his inability to be for her what she needed most. Then she let go, self-consciously pulling away from him, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm glad you didn't die."

"Me too, love."

She was more composed now, and looked up at him, opening her mouth as though about to speak. Then she seemed to change her mind, and said uncertainly, "Anyway—"

He had come to loathe that careless "Anyway", the false bravado it expressed and the whole chain of circumstances that had produced it. He nearly reprimanded her for it, but realized just in time that to do so would rob her of a defense she still needed. Instead, he gently cupped her chin in his hand and said, "Abbie. I promise I'll find a place for you. Someplace you'll be safe—the very best I can. I promise."

"I know you will," she said. He smiled, released her chin, and moved his hand up to tweak one of her curls, hoping to get a smile from her in return. Her face remained solemn.

She said, "Whenever you do have your own little girl?—Maybe you could name her 'Abbie'."

Without a second's thought he replied, "Now why would I do a silly thing like that when I've already got you?"

And then, at last, she smiled.

**Brother Bernard fretted his hands together, wetting his lips with a nervous tongue.** Brother Aquinas stood to one side, his arms full of the inevitable paper printouts. Behind his desk, Sheridan said, "Well?" After all, since they'd asked to meet with him, it was up to them to begin. Garibaldi, arms folded, shifted his weight impatiently from foot to foot.

"Captain—I hardly know whether this is good news or bad. Brother Aquinas and I have devised a program which we believe can detect the onset of these—I suppose you would call them rogue commands, these so-called 'viruses', although technically—"

"I vote we call it good news," said Garibaldi, cutting him off. "What's the problem?"

Mercifully, Aquinas took over the explanation. "Captain, these printouts record what we believe to be several rogue commands that were thwarted by our program. I think you may have noted some minor problems in the alien sectors?"

"Yes, in fact, I had," said Sheridan. "I've notified Dr. Franklin to stand ready."

Garibaldi, at the end of his patience, said, "Look, if there's a problem here, will you just spit it out?"

Aquinas laid the printouts on the desk and tapped them with his forefinger. "It seems to us that we see a change in the saboteur's pattern. These false commands bear every characteristic of the earlier ones, except one. They aren't customized. Except for minor variations, they are virtually identical to one another."

"Like cookie cutters," Sheridan said. Brother Bernard's face lighted up, as though so apt a comparison had never occurred to him, and he exclaimed, "Exactly!"

Aquinas, spread his hands eloquently. "We're at a loss, Captain. Is there, perhaps, a second saboteur? If so, then why does his work so closely resemble that of the first? And if not—"

"Then why has the da Vinci of computer sabotage suddenly started painting by the numbers?" Garibaldi finished for him.

Sheridan frowned, shaking his head in thought, swearing softly under his breath. "You say this program of yours aborts the sabotage."

"It has, in these instances," Bernard stipulated.

"Take it out," said Sheridan. "Take it off the system."

Both monks stared at him, speechless with horror.

Garibaldi nodded reluctant assent.

"I—I don't understand," stammered Aquinas.

"We've identified the saboteur," the captain explained. "Mr. Garibaldi and I are taking steps to find him and stop him. We can't afford to tip him off that we're on to him."

"But—more lives—"

Brother Bernard said, "Captain Sheridan is aware of the risks, Brother."

"But not willing to take more than we must," said Sheridan. "Can you modify your program to detect the beginning of a rogue sequence and immediately notify C and C?"

"Certainly," Bernard responded. "We shall."

"Then thank you again, gentlemen, for all your help." Sheridan rose from his chair and extended his hand. Brother Aquinas shook it perfunctorily, gathering up printouts into his free arm as he did so. Bernard, lost in a reverie of technical abstraction, was already halfway out the door.

After the monks had left, Garibaldi said, "Okay, so why _has_ Jaeger started mass-producing?"

"I wish I knew, Michael." Sheridan replied, adding wryly, "Maybe he's taking a vacation."

"Yeah, right, I shoulda thought of that. He's hopped off to New Vegas and left the cookie-cutter sabotage behind so we wouldn't miss him."

"Or he's training an apprentice. Or there _is_ a copycat saboteur, and now we have two of them to deal with."

"Looks like I'll just have to nail his ass so we can ask him."

"Looks like. As soon as those Rangers arrive and I've briefed them, I'll send them straight to you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**After dropping off the **_**Jungle Books**_** at Ivanova's quarters, Marcus and Abbie drifted, more or less aimlessly, towards Red sector and the Zocalo.** Marcus decided to modify his usual practice of letting Abbie lead both their footsteps and their conversation, this time putting in suggestions of his own.

Getting information from people who didn't especially want to give it was one of Marcus' specialties. Patient observation, judicious bribery, eavesdropping, sheer intimidation—all had served him well, and his judgment was unerring as to which technique to use, and when, and on whom. Finding out about Abbie's past and any family she might have left was a different, more delicate matter. To approach the subject was to traverse an emotional minefield. He must move cautiously (like a Black Panther, he thought) to get what he needed to know without triggering an explosion of terrifying memories and raw grief in Abbie.

It was unlikely that she'd be in danger from any external source. As they moved along, Marcus quickly became aware of what Garibaldi had called "eyes on him" again. Friendly eyes, this time: two members of Garibaldi's own staff. Obviously the security chief was taking no chances with Abbie's safety while Jaeger was still at large, and Marcus could appreciate that. The idea that Abbie needed any protection but his own was, of course, an affront. Still—as long as Zack Allan wasn't involved, he decided, he would tolerate their being shadowed.

"Are we anywhere near where you used to live?" he asked casually.

"Sort of." She was wary. "Why?"

"Curious, that's all."

Abbie chewed what remained of her left thumbnail as they walked along—another habit he had to restrain himself from commenting on. "It was more this way," she said, finally, and started bearing to the right. Marcus followed, noting from the periphery of his vision that the two security guards continued to flank them.

When she pointed out the dress shop, he pretended to study it. In fact, he was quickly scanning the area, memorizing the name of every nearby establishment for future research. "What was it called?" he asked.

"Becker's Books," she answered, a little defensively, as though she wished it had been called something a little fancier.

"Becker. So that's your last name. What was your father's first name?"

"Hal. Well, 'Harold', really, but everybody called him Hal.—What's _your_ last name?"

"Cole. As in Old King Cole."

Suddenly her hand, warm and confiding, snuggled into his. "I wish I'd known that when I was looking for you in Medlab. It would've been a lot easier."

"Found me anyway, didn't you? Clever girl."

She squeezed his hand briefly, then withdrew her own as quickly as she'd offered it. "Anyway—you don't want to go in there or anything, do you?" Plainly, she did not.

"Let's not," he agreed; he could always come back later, alone. Abbie turned away and set off at once, as though eager to put the place behind her, but to his relief she didn't actually run away.

"Let me just ask a couple of things, so we know where we stand," he said. She shrugged, and responded briefly to his gentle questions. No, as far as she knew, she didn't have grandparents—or aunts, uncles, cousins, or stepfamily. "I already _told_ you," she said finally, stopping in her tracks, fists on bony hips, her voice edging up toward a whine. "I don't have _anybody_."

_Except you._ The unspoken reproach hung in the air between them, like smoke.

Enough was enough. He would find out about the late Hal Becker's friends on his own, rather than continuing to ask Abbie questions. He would not risk reviving the specter of Jaeger, hand at her throat, demanding information. "Tell you what," he said. "Let's forget it for now. Ever play Kim's game?"

"I've never heard of it."

"I'll teach you. It's fun."

Abbie caught on quickly to the simple rules of Kim's game. Briefly examine a collection of small objects—the kiosks and shop windows of the Zocalo offered a splendid variety of such collections—then turn your back on it and name as many of the objects as you could. The game engaged her lively mind and provided a fine distraction; and while she concentrated on the exact number and color of the rings in a jeweler's display, Marcus was free to lean up against the wall, snatch a minute's rest, and consider where he'd go and who he'd talk to this evening. He didn't put much effort into the few turns he took at the game. Sharp observation came as naturally as breathing to a Ranger, and anyway, they were playing for Abbie's amusement, not his.

"Papa would've liked this game," the child commented after a while. "This is the kind of stuff we did all the time."

"When you weren't in school," Marcus suggested, a new tack suddenly occurring to him. A teacher, classmates, more leads—_was_ there a school on the station?

"I never went to school," said Abbie. "Papa didn't believe in school. He says—he said, schools teach you _what_ to think, but the important thing is to know _how_ to think. He always taught me himself."

"Must have been fun for him, you're so quick," Marcus said, regretfully bidding the potential new lead goodbye. "Let's try that fruit stand. See if you can get them all."

As Abbie stared at the fruit, whispering, "Two peaches, a bunch of grapes—" Marcus glimpsed something familiar from the corner of his eye. He turned his head just in time to see two figures in flowing coats, rectangular brooches glinting as they walked swiftly down the Zocalo towards Blue sector. Towards either the war room or the Security office, he had no doubt; two of his brother Rangers, come to help hunt down the Hunter. Neither of them knowing Downbelow, not the way he did—oh, they'd get the job done all right, they were Rangers after all, but not so well as he could—damn Stephen's overcaution anyway, he was perfectly capable of—

"Marcus." An impatient hand tugged at his sleeve. "I said, I'm ready. Are you okay?"

_You already have a job._ He brought his attention back to Abbie and said, "Sorry, love. Thought I saw someone I knew. Right, let's hear it."

"Two peaches, a bunch of grapes, six bananas—" she began obediently. She thought to herself that, from the look on his face, whoever Marcus had seen had been someone he didn't very much like.

**Garibaldi strode through the Zocalo, sublimely indifferent to the smiles and stares and pointing fingers that followed him.** He had a definite goal in mind and a large, dark-brown teddy bear tucked under one arm. By linking to one of the officers he'd assigned to guard Marcus and Abbie, Garibaldi was able to time his arrival at the sandwich shop perfectly. To all appearances, he just happened to run into them the moment they came out of the shop.

The little girl saw him first. She froze in place, eyes dilating, color and expression draining from her face at the sight of him. With one hand she clutched the takeaway box she carried as though she feared he'd snatch it from her. The other hand fluttered out toward Marcus, then pulled back and was thrust behind her back. It took about two seconds for her to transform from a little girl enjoying a holiday to an icon of defensive wariness.

Marcus, after a glance down, rested a protective hand lightly on her shoulder, and she moved closer to him.

Garibaldi had thought he'd be prepared for this kind of reaction. It took an extra effort for him to swallow his rage at that bastard Jaeger, smile cordially, and speak lightly. "Hey, good. Just who I was hoping to run into."

"How very fortunate." Marcus' tone was neutral, but Garibaldi knew that would change in a nanosecond at the slightest hint of a threat to Abbie. "Can I help you with something?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to Abbie. That okay?"

Marcus glanced down again, referring the decision to the child. She sidled a little closer to him and said, "I guess."

"C'mon. Let's get out of traffic." Garibaldi led the way to one of the benches along the Zocalo, settling down with the bear ensconced comfortably on his lap. Abbie eyed it with curiosity. Good. She didn't sit down beside Garibaldi, but stood facing him. Marcus retreated a step or two, remaining within earshot, ready if she needed him.

"See, it's this bear," the security chief explained gravely. "I'm walkin' along, minding my own business, and there's this bear in this store window. And it sort of looks at me, y'know? Gives me this look. Next thing I know, I'm in this store, buying this bear."

"Ye-a-a-h," she said. A corner of her mouth quirked in a tentative approach to a smile.

"Well, you see my problem?" Garibaldi spread his hands out, appealing to her. "I mean, I'm the chief of security. What's it gonna look like, I walk around with this bear?"

A real smile was forming now, as Abbie suggested, "Maybe you should just put him in your quarters."

"You think so?" Garibaldi pondered for a full minute, then dolefully shook his head. "I dunno—the chief of security keeps a teddy bear on his bed? How's that gonna sound? See, I'm supposed to be a tough guy. Now—here's what I was thinking—" Garibaldi darted a glance from side to side, leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Suppose maybe you take him off my hands? You and this bear, nobody'd think twice. That make sense?"

Marcus couldn't resist interjecting, "Have you consulted the bear about this?"

Garibaldi looked suitably horrified. "Y'know, I never thought of that." He held the bear at arm's length, looked into its impassive plastic eyes, and said, "Okay, bear, whaddya say?"

After a moment, Abbie said timidly, "I think he likes the idea."

"Yeah," Garibaldi agreed, nodding. "Yeah, you know, you're right. He does."

Abbie looked over her shoulder at Marcus and asked, "Would Susan mind?"

"Certainly not. She's Russian. They're very fond of bears. Here, let me hold your box."

She surrendered the takeout box to him and received the bear from Garibaldi, holding it tentatively for a few seconds, then hugging it close. "Baloo. His name's Baloo," she reported, adding, for Garibaldi's benefit, "That's from a book . . . . Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi."

"Hey, thank _you_," Garibaldi said, getting to his feet. "That's a big load off my mind."

"Can't be too careful of one's image," observed Marcus. "A tough guy like you."

_Sotto voce_, Garibaldi answered, "Think I'm gonna let you and Susan have all the fun?" He added aloud, "See you two around. Anything I can do, let me know."

"I will," said Marcus.

"Thank you," Abbie said again to Garibaldi's retreating back. Her eyes were shining, and she took Marcus' hand without hesitation. "He didn't act like a grown-up at all this time," she said admiringly.

"Not a bit."

"This time," said Abbie, "he was more like you."

**More often than not, Ivanova wound down after a duty shift by making a brief visit to Earhart's, or blowing a few credits at one of the casinos in the Zocalo.** Not today, though. Today even the thought of one of those brightly-lighted, noisy places made her head ache worse than it already did, and that was a considerable achievement.

All she wanted to do was stagger off to her own quarters, down a dozen aspirin, and fall into bed. Waiting for Jaeger's latest bit of sabotage to unmask itself had started winding her nerves tight as harp strings. When at last the rogue command was issued, the monks' antiviral program had notified C and C immediately. Trauma teams, evac teams, and the whole damn Medlab staff had instantly sprung to readiness.

Just in time to watch three whole days' docking logs entirely vanish from the system.

Along, of course, with the backups. Making, of course, an impenetrable mess of the docking fee records, since the vanished docking log data were an integral part of the formula for calculating the fees.

This led, of course, to seven solid hours of wrestling with ship captains' receipts, paper printouts, and Customs records to reconstruct the logs, restore the docking fee records, and ensure that every ship had paid its fee and was properly credited. Without this final check, ships ordinarily were not permitted to depart Babylon 5.

Naturally, a large number of departures had been delayed.

Naturally, three of these ships were Gneissh—one of them the flagship of Trade Minister Questal's own commercial fleet.

Sheridan, who undertook the task of trying to soothe Questal, had emerged from his office pale-faced and taciturn, no longer joking that the situation could have been worse.

It was all under control now, of course, or Ivanova wouldn't have come off duty, but the muscles in her jaw, her head, her neck, and between her shoulder blades had clamped into solid titanium bands of tension. She hoped to God she'd find her quarters empty—she couldn't cope with Abbie just now, she couldn't cope with anyone—_that's right_, she berated herself, _bail out on the kid like everyone else has done, just because you've had a bad day_—

A terrible day. A hellish day. A day designed to make you long for a simpler time, when records were kept by faultlessly loyal, sentient beings instead of by a machine that mindlessly wiped them clean on command. Back in the days of inkwells, dip pens, green eyeshades, sleeve garters. And aspirin. Lots and lots of aspirin . . . .

Entering her quarters, Ivanova stepped into a room fragrant with appetizing smells.

Marcus, half-swathed in an afghan, was sitting up on the sofa, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Abbie trotted over to him from the kitchenette, cheerful as a cricket, a glass of water in one hand, saying, "You're supposed to take your medicine now, and then go back on your regular dosing schedule. Dr. Franklin said."

"Oh, he did, did he? When was that?" Marcus asked, brushing back tousled hair from his face with one hand and accepting the glass with the other.

"About an hour ago. I called to ask if I should wake you up to take it." Abbie flashed a bright smile at the doorway. "Hi, Susan. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes." The smile faded to the inevitable look of uncertainty. "Is—is that okay, that I started dinner?"

Ivanova's aching head was processing all this a little slowly. "What?—oh. Sure. Of course." She had to struggle with a sudden impulse to laugh; Abbie's look of relief was such a contrast to Marcus' almost palpable chagrin, as though having been caught napping were an unforgivable social solecism. "Look," Ivanova said, "give me a few minutes to freshen up, okay?" The aroma of food set her empty stomach rumbling, reminding her that she hadn't had time to even think about lunch.

She literally ached for a hot shower, but there wasn't time. Instead, Ivanova gulped three aspirin, released her hair from its braid, and fanned her fingers out over her head to massage her scalp. _Aah._ Better already. She brushed her hair out vigorously, left it hanging loose, and went back out to find that the afghan had been neatly folded and draped over the back of the sofa. Marcus had combed his hair and gotten himself back in order as well; he offered an apologetic smile. "I seem to have been invited to dinner," he said, nodding toward the table, at which three places had been meticulously set.

"Sure," said Ivanova again. It was easier to just let herself be swept along by whatever was going on. And not for worlds would she have done anything that might dampen the eager brightness in Abbie's eyes. Even after Susan seconded the child's invitation, though, Marcus seemed distinctly uneasy. Well, that was fine too. He was so good at upsetting other people's self-possession; high time he got a taste of his own medicine.

Wisely, Abbie had kept her culinary ambitions within the limits of Susan's larder and her own skill. She dished up a simple salad, followed by a savory noodle dish that was both delicious and filling. For once, she ate the least of anyone at the table, having snacked in mid-afternoon on the contents of the takeout box from lunch. The adults both ate heartily. Marcus, genuinely hungry for the first time since he'd been wounded, cleaned his plate; Abbie proudly dished up seconds, keeping up a flow of conversation all the while.

She told Ivanova all about Garibaldi and the bear; her imitation of the security chief explaining his dilemma was so bull's-eye accurate that it set Ivanova choking with laughter. Marcus listened wordlessly, almost gravely, quietly finishing his meal while Abbie went on to tell Susan how they'd come back to watch vids, only to have Marcus drop right off to sleep on the sofa. Ivanova glanced at him, suppressing a smile at the solemnity of his expression. _For God's sake_, she thought, _it's his first day out of Medlab. So he took a nap. So what?_

Abbie was saying, "Anyway, it was okay. A lot of times when Papa used to come home from Lindbergh's he'd fall asleep on our couch. So I knew just what to do."

"Sounds like you had quite a day," said Ivanova. Her headache had eased wonderfully, and the knots between her shoulder blades were almost completely unloosed.

"And yours?" Marcus asked her. Abbie jumped up and darted to the kitchenette to fetch dessert.

"Oh—challenging," Ivanova replied, with a quick, urgent warning nod in the child's direction.

"Any particular problems?" he persisted. Abbie came back and set three small, chilled bowls of canned peach slices in front of them.

"Just lost three days' docking logs. Nothing fatal." Ivanova's temples were starting to throb again.

Marcus picked up his spoon and started on the peach slices. "Doesn't sound so—" Then, catching the look on Ivanova's face, he said, "I mean, sounds ghastly. The same computer problem?"

"Yep." Ivanova couldn't risk another gesture towards Abbie, because the child was regarding them both warily, already suspicious that she was being deliberately excluded from her conversation.

"Your hair sure is pretty, all down like that," Abbie broke in abruptly. "Marcus? Don't you like Susan's hair like that?"

"Yes, it's lovely," Marcus agreed. Ivanova shrugged, glad to change the subject, and began, "I wear it down a lot, it just that it gets in my way on duty—"

Then the truth hit her.

Suddenly, with the sure clarity of revelation, Ivanova saw the scene as though she were a bystander. Man, woman, and child, gathered around the dinner table.—_How was your day, dear? Oh, fine, and yours?—_Homey. Domestic. Cozy little nuclear family. Everything that Abbie, that all three of them, had once had, and lost.

_Why, that little—! She's trying to set us up!_

In the shock of recognition, Ivanova met Marcus' eyes. He gave an almost imperceptible confirmatory nod. She realized that, somehow, he'd seen it all along. _So_ that's _why he's been so uncomfortable._

She'd lost track of what she'd started to say, and the room was suddenly very, very quiet. Then Marcus said, "Well, if convenience is all you're after, why not just shave your head, like the Centauri women?" Over Abbie's shriek of laughter, Ivanova was able to retort, "Just as soon as you start wearing your hair up in a crest, like the Centauri men!" This evoked laughter from all three, and the awkward moment passed.

When Abbie started to collect the empty dishes, Ivanova stopped her, saying firmly, "Uh-uh. You cooked, we'll clear up. That's only fair. Go watch vids or something." Flushed with satisfaction, the child obeyed. The adults gathered dishes and cutlery in silence.

At last, handing Ivanova plates as she placed them in the cleansing unit, Marcus said, "Awkward, isn't it?"

"You knew what she was up to, didn't you? I didn't see it at first."

"You don't know the background, that's all. This morning, when I was discharged from Medlab, she was ecstatic. Got it into her head that she'd be coming to live with me permanently."

Ivanova shook her head, loading the last of the pans Abbie had used into the cleanser. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth, of course. I always do. About my being a Ranger, and what that means."

"Wasn't that a little rough?" she asked. She pressed the CLEANSE button and turned to face him.

"Yes, it was. Should I have been gentler? Lied to her?"

"No," Ivanova conceded. "No. You're right. You couldn't do that."

"I didn't tell her about the Shadows, of course. She doesn't need to know that much. But she understands now that I can't raise her alone. She must have thought that the two of us together—" Marcus looked away, ostensibly making sure that Abbie was safely out of earshot. Ivanova picked up a sponge and vigorously wiped the already spotless counter.

"I should leave now," Marcus said. "Start checking for any connections her father had in the Zocalo. Couldn't do that today while she was with me. Will you be all right with her?"

"Yeah, I think I can manage it." Ivanova edged her voice with sarcasm. _Just as long_, she added to herself, _as Abbie doesn't start telling me what a great catch you are._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"**Who's topside now?"**

The man removing Jaeger's lunch tray nearly dropped it, the words came so unexpectedly. Jaeger turned from his console and began wolfing his dinner.

"Topside?" the man repeated. "That'd be Yarnell, sir."

"Send him in."

When Yarnell came, Jaeger asked, "Anything? Problems with the docking bays, maybe?"

"Yes, _sir_." Yarnell grinned in relief at having good news to report. He described the ships he'd seen waiting endlessly in dock, the angry captains and exec officers waving receipts and manifests as they dressed down everyone from dockers to senior station officers.

Jaeger smiled with his mouth full as he listened. "Good," he said at last. "That's what I wanted to hear." Draining the last of his coffee, he wiped his hands and mouth and shoved the tray aside. "You can take this. Dismissed."

Yarnell picked up the tray. Should he mention that Remmick was gone? After a moment's thought it seemed like a good idea. "Uh, sir—"

In the moment Yarnell had taken to consider the question, Jaeger had turned back to his console. Without looking up from his work, he said, "Still here? I said, dismissed."

"Um—"

"Is there a part of 'Dismissed' you don't understand, Yarnell?"

Not such a good idea after all . . . . Without another word, Yarnell stole out with the tray in his hands.

**Marcus started at the Elegant Apparel Shoppe which had replaced Becker's Books.** Truthfully claiming to be a friend of the family, he asked if anyone could tell him what had become of Hal and Abbie Becker. The shop owner herself was there and dealt with him graciously, but she knew nothing of the business that had previously occupied the space. The name of Becker was obviously meaningless to her.

Merchants at other neighboring establishments weren't much more helpful. Several said they remembered that a bookstore used to be close by, and one or two acknowledged remembering the Beckers. But after making that acknowledgement, none would go farther. No one, it would seem, knew Hal Becker well. He appeared to have made no particular friends. The closest anyone came to discussing Becker's fate was to say, "Hal Becker? He left the station or something, didn't he?"

Marcus judged that a few of the people he asked honestly didn't remember Becker. But the rest were lying, every last one of them. And they were lying because, even now, they were still afraid. Marcus read their fear in suddenly shifting eyes, heard it in the quickened cadence of a voice.

He felt it like a cold draft when a clerk in a leather shop suddenly turned her back on him to busy herself with another customer. So much fear, even after the expulsion of Nightwatch. _The Shadows won't need to conquer us,_ he thought bleakly. _We're doing it to ourselves._

The other customer made a purchase and left, leaving the clerk and Marcus alone in the shop. Reluctantly she turned back to him, her jaw clamped tight. "You say you're a friend of Hal Becker's?"

"A friend of the family, yes."

"The hell you are," she retorted. "Anyone who knew Hal Becker would know to ask at Lindbergh's. That's where he spent his time. Anything else?"

"Nothing. Thank you," he said, and meant it. Abbie had mentioned a Lindbergh's, he remembered. At last, a solid lead.

Catering to the civilian trade, Lindbergh's aspired to the mid-twentieth-century Terran ambience of the Babylon 5 officers' lounge, Earhart's. Marcus was neither a student of the period nor an habitué of Earhart's and could not have said how well they'd succeeded. But the place did have a rich, definite atmosphere. Swing music bubbled from its sound system. At the far end of the room, a multifaceted mirror ball turned lazily at the end of the chain by which it was suspended from the ceiling, spangling bits of reflected light onto a glossy floor where several couples were dancing. Other patrons clustered, laughing, at the bar. They called out drinks orders to two bartenders, who kept their glasses filled with practiced efficiency. There was a sprinkling of small round tables circled by aggressively shiny chrome chairs. A row of booths, their thick cushions upholstered in a slick red material, offered more intimacy to those who desired it.

The walls were decorated with framed, sepia-toned imitation photographs, each with a discreet caption identifying its subject to newcomers like Marcus. Drifting in to appraise the place before making himself known, Marcus picked out the few pictured faces he recognized. A handsome male face under a primitive leather flying helmet—Lindbergh himself—held pride of place in the largest picture of all. Mae West rolled her eyes, flirting from her frame with a dreamy-eyed, imperturbable Laurence Olivier. Albert Einstein was there, in his rumpled sweater, still a scientific icon after three centuries.

It was a bit like reviewing Garibaldi's rogues' gallery again, Marcus thought, except this time all the pictured people really were dead.

Except for one.

A familiar face caught his eye. He looked again to be sure, and his jaw dropped a little at the sheer audacity of it. Flanked by Franklin Roosevelt's jaunty grin and the bulldog scowl of Winston Churchill was the bland, decidedly unheroic face of Earth's President, Morgan Clark.

Morgan Clark, who'd vaulted to power by engineering the assassination of his predecessor, Luis Santiago. Clark, the man under whom Nightwatch had been founded. The head, as Garibaldi might have put it, of the snake, mounted here with the statesmen and heroes and movie stars.

Marcus spotted a booth from which Clark's picture could be easily seen and headed for it. One more thing, he noticed as he took his seat. Everybody in Lindbergh's was Human. He didn't see a single individual of any of the alien races.

A sleek hostess glided up to his booth, displaying polished teeth in a well-rehearsed smile. "Welcome to Lindbergh's, sir. May I start you off with a drink?"

"Drazi ale, please."

She didn't miss a beat. "I'm sorry, sir, we don't serve it. May I suggest a dark Guinness? Straight from Earth—a little expensive, but I'm sure you'll find it's worth it."

"I'll try it. Thank you."

The hostess glided away and returned promptly, bearing a tall glass on a tray. "I think you'll find this to your taste, sir."

He took a judicious sip. It really was excellent. "Superb," he assured her, setting the glass down. "Exactly to my taste. How did you guess?"

"Well, after working here nearly two years, you develop a knack. Now, what else can I bring you?"

"Actually, I'm looking for a friend of mine—Hal Becker. Have you seen him?"

The hostess's smile congealed on her lips. "Becker? Hal Beck—I'm sorry, sir, I don't recognize the name."

"Oh, but you must," he insisted. "You say you've been here nearly two years, and you're much too good at your job to forget a regular like Hal."

She hesitated. Marcus pressed his advantage. "Perhaps I could speak to the manager?"

"Just a minute," she said in a low voice, and tapped rapidly away on her high heels. He turned in his seat and craned his neck to see where she went. At the far side of the dance floor, she went up to a middle-aged man and spoke to him urgently, gesturing in Marcus' direction. The man nodded briefly and made a reply. With a glance back at Marcus, the hostess took her tray and went off toward the bar.

The man with whom she'd spoken came over to Marcus' booth. He appeared to be in his late forties, dark-skinned, with grizzled curly hair thinning on the crown of his head. He had a slight potbelly and pronounced pouches under his eyes. Curtly, he said, "I'm Barry Lord. Giselle tells me you're looking for Hal Becker."

"That's right."

"Why? Who sent you?" Lord's voice was deep and brusque, and his jaw jutted belligerently.

_Pay dirt_, Marcus thought. Perfect love casts out fear; but in the absence of love, anger will sometimes serve, and Barry Lord was an angry man.

"Family friend," said Marcus. "I was sure he'd be here. Everyone says it's his favorite place."

Lord sat down across the table. "Look, he's not here. Okay? He hasn't been here in weeks. You can tell that to whoever sent you."

Marcus unhurriedly sipped Guinness, watching the color mount steadily in Lord's face. "I just asked a simple question," he said at last. "Did you and Hal have a falling out?"

"No. Look. Hal's all right, until he's had a few. Most nights he had more than a few, okay?"

"Rowdy, drunk, disorderly—" Marcus suggested.

"That doesn't happen in my place," Lord stated. "He just _talked_, okay? Trouble is, he didn't care who he talked to, or what he said, or who heard it."

"Sounds like Hal," said Marcus, with the assurance of an old family friend. "Religion, was it, this time? Or politics?"

"Politics, God damn him." Lord lowered his voice. "Look, whatever he did in his own shop was fine, okay? None of my business. But when he came into my place, with his leaflets and his theories—"

"That again?" Marcus made sure his voice carried. "All that about how Santiago's death wasn't an accident, and Clark had a hand in it or something, and those rumors about the Psi Corps?"

Lord jumped a little, as though an electric shock had passed through him. He shot out a hand and clamped it down on Marcus' forearm. "Yeah, yeah, all that," he hissed. "And keep your voice down."

Marcus freed his arm from Lord's grip with a single powerful twist. "Bit jumpy, are we?"

Lord growled an obscenity, looked hastily around, and leaned across the table. "Look. Nightwatch got on Becker's case, okay? One night his place burned. The next day he and his daughter disappeared. Then the Nightwatch came _here_. For two days they hassled my employees, plus everyone else who walked in. Five of my people quit, and then _they_ disappeared. I got cited for some trumped-up health code violation and closed down for three days. I lost a lot of business I couldn't afford to lose."

"Tough situation," said Marcus with a complete lack of sympathy.

"Listen, mister." Lord stabbed a finger across the table at Marcus. "I sunk every last credit I had into opening this place. I work sixteen hours a day to keep it going. I run a good place, and my customers get their money's worth. Now I'm sorry about Becker, but it's not my problem, okay?"

"And Becker's daughter?"

"Yeah, sorry about her too," Lord replied. "I remember Abbie, nice little kid."

"Nice little orphan, now," said Marcus casually. "Hal Becker is dead."

Barry Lord stared at him, face blank with shock. His lower lip trembled momentarily; muscles worked in his throat. The color faded from his face, then came rushing back. In a voice like the hiss of molten lava, he said, "God damn you, who are you? Who are you _really?_"

"Just what I said: a friend of the family, or what's left of it. I'm trying to find a safe place for Abbie to spend what's left of her childhood. Think you're afraid of Nightwatch? Try talking to her."

Lord looked moodily down at the table, where he traced a circle over and over again with his forefinger.

Sensing a momentary softening in the other man, Marcus persisted, "Her parents are dead. She hasn't any relatives. If there's anyone you know, anyplace you could direct me—"

Lord's finger stopped tracing the circle and his hand bunched into a fist. He looked up from the table and met the Ranger's eyes. His jaw was jutting forward again; his voice was harsh.

"Not my problem," he said, slowly, distinctly. "If you want to make it yours, I can't stop you. But it's not my problem." Getting heavily to his feet, he went on, "I don't want your money, mister. That drink is on the house. Finish it, get out, and don't come into my place again."

Marcus fought down an almost overpowering impulse to fling the Guinness in Lord's face, and then an equally strong urge to hurl the glass and its contents, hard, against the photo of Morgan Clark. Instead, he lifted the drink in mocking salute and said, "Sleep well, Mr. Lord," to the taverner's receding back. With malicious pleasure, he nursed the Guinness along, taking small, leisurely sips, watching Lord and the hostess, Giselle, fidget in the distance as they willed him to gulp down the brew and be gone.

_When those Nightwatch people close you down, you don't _have _any more friends. . . ._.

Forty minutes later, Marcus left his booth and waited outside Lindbergh's for the security guard who had trailed him on his way in to shadow him outside. When the guard appeared, Marcus walked right up to him and said genially, "Might as well give you something to do. Could you please link through to Mr. Garibaldi and tell me where he is?"

**If Garibaldi was surprised that Marcus wanted to talk with him, he didn't show it; but then, Garibaldi never seemed to be surprised by much of anything.** He invited the Ranger into his quarters with an expansive sweep of his hand, indicated a chair, and said, "What can I do for you?"

"When are you going for Jaeger?"

Short, blunt, and to the point; an approach Garibaldi appreciated. He already knew why Marcus wanted to know, so he didn't bother asking. Instead, he said, "I thought you were off duty for a couple weeks."

"My time's my own, then," parried Marcus.

Garibaldi plunked into another chair and was blunt in his turn. "What is it you're after here, Marcus? Revenge?"

"Something like that," Marcus replied. "When he's caught—when he realizes he's trapped, when he knows we've got him—I want to be there. I want to see his face when it happens. Yes. Revenge. Is that a problem?"

Garibaldi knew that Marcus would do nothing to jeopardize the operation. At the same time, he couldn't imagine the Ranger standing idly by, watching, while it went down. And unlike the two Rangers who'd been assigned to him (excellent men, both of them), Marcus didn't report to Garibaldi. He didn't report to anybody, except Sheridan and Delenn. Garibaldi was willing to bet his next month's pay that, unless either Sheridan, Delenn, or both specifically forbade it, Marcus would find a way—or make one—to be there when Jaeger was taken.

The security chief felt a pang of regret at having to share the satisfaction of the capture. Still, fair was fair.

"No problem," he said. "But I don't like loose cannons. Here are the rules. Rule one: I'm in charge. Rule two: no heroics from you. No big risks. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. I don't want to have to explain to that bear why I let something happen to you."

Marcus smiled and felt himself relaxing. For the first time all evening, he felt he'd accomplished something. "The bear told me you'd understand," he said. "Where, and when?"

"We're not sure yet," Garibaldi said. He went on to explain. From snatches of conversation his spies had overheard and pieced together, he'd concluded that Jaeger was planning to make a major move, and make it soon. When that plan was ready, it was likely Jaeger would have to emerge from wherever he was hiding to meet with his followers. "And that's when we go for him, and all the others to boot. It could be any time, probably at a minute's notice."

"I'll be ready."

"Suppose you're with Abbie when it comes down?"

_Lennier_. His friend's name flashed into Marcus' mind like a gift from Whoever or Whatever was in charge of the Universe. Someone Abbie knew, with whom she'd already interacted well—above all, someone Marcus could trust not to betray him to Franklin. "I can take care of that," he assured Garibaldi. "I'll arrange it tonight."

"Okay, then we're set. Anything else? You want a cup of tea or something? Plan a raid on EarthDome?" the security chief offered hospitably.

"Not tonight, thanks." Marcus rose to go. "By the way, _is_ it necessary to have one of your officers trailing round after me every waking moment?"

"It is if you want me to be able to get you at a minute's notice. Unless you want me to issue you a handlink," said Garibaldi smoothly. Marcus didn't exactly grimace, but his revulsion at the idea of carrying a link was as plain as if he had, a reaction Garibaldi had counted on. To station personnel, the handlink was either a convenient tool or a damned nuisance. To a Ranger who'd just made himself invisible in a murky barroom Downbelow, a handlink signal was an immediate threat to life and limb.

"I'll stick with the guard dog," said Marcus. "Oh, and I don't think we need to mention my personal plans to Stephen."

"Like you said—your time's your own. Especially since you won't be taking any big risks."

"Rule number two. Good night, Mr. Garibaldi."

When Marcus had gone, Garibaldi fixed a cup of tea for himself, punched up a favorite Daffy Duck vid, and relaxed with a little snack before turning in. At the back of his mind, the part that never fully switched off, he pondered how he _would_ explain to Franklin if something went awry or Marcus did something stupid. Stephen was a good friend, one of the best, but there were some things he just didn't understand. In the end, Garibaldi decided he'd just have to see to it personally that nothing went wrong. Explaining to Franklin was one thing; but he knew he'd never be able to explain to the bear.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**"Lights," said Marcus, entering his quarters and turning to salute the Valen shrine.**

For an instant, with the room newly illuminated, he saw the room as it must have looked to Abbie, comfortless and cold. The impression was momentary. His quarters were what they had always been: completely adequate for his modest needs, perfectly suited to his vocation.

But, for the briefest instant, he was tantalized by the idea of a real home, a presence besides his own, a voice gladly pronouncing his name . . . .

The reality of his life reasserted itself, and he winced. His wound had been aching dully for some time; now it was beginning to throb. The pain pill he had taken in the morning had worn off hours ago. He swallowed another with a swig of water, and retreated to his one comfortable chair.

There was work to do, and further inquiries to make. He meant to get right to it. Instead, he sat idly for many minutes, gazing down the short length of the room at the bench he had shared with Abbie and the Valen shrine beyond.

_I can't give up being a Ranger, love. Not even for you._

Very soon, he'd be back on duty. And one day, sooner or later, he would almost certainly embark on the mission which would prove to be his last. No one individual stood much chance against the Shadows. He'd accepted that risk the day he began training as a Ranger; he accepted it still. But against that day, he must fulfill the new duty that Fate, or the Universe, or Someone, had given him. Find a place for Abbie, cut the ties, and do it soon. She had already become much too fond of him . . . .

Resolutely, he turned to the Babcom unit and began requesting the information he wanted.

_I'll find you someplace safe, the very best I can. I promise._

Someplace safe. As if there were such a thing in a universe where Shadows incinerated peaceful mining colonies, businesses were destroyed because their owners dared speak their minds, and hungry little girls cleaned brothels in exchange for a place to sleep.

They must have come from somewhere, Hal and Abbie Becker, and since no one on Babylon 5 was going to help, Marcus must find out for himself where that place had been and who they might have left behind. Some cousin, perhaps, about whom Abbie knew nothing. Something. Anything.

Was it strictly true, he wondered suddenly, that _no one_ on the station would help? Stephen had family back on Earth—three sisters, was it, or four? Captain Sheridan had mentioned a sister once. . . .

And there was Delenn. There was Minbar—beautiful Minbar, with its crystalline cities. The place where Marcus himself had found healing, sanity, purpose, even a measure of peace, after his own tremendous loss.

_But that was different. I was a grown man. I can't send a Human child to grow up on an alien world, not if there's any other choice._

He was prepared to hack through any number of security protocols, if necessary, to get the information he wanted, but the computer murmured, "Search complete" and began displaying the data. The files on Hal Becker were a matter of public record.

Becker's face stared out from the monitor: a squarish, intelligent face, with a broad, thin-lipped mouth, a snub nose, and the hazel eyes Becker had passed on to his daughter. The face was partly framed by thinning, sandy hair, and it wore a quizzical expression, as though Becker were perpetually asking the Universe to explain itself.

Marcus sat a long time, looking at the image, committing the face of Abbie's father to memory, before going on through the record.

The report on the fire that had gutted Becker's Books was thorough, succinct, businesslike. The blaze was described as being "of suspicious origin". Possibly, the report speculated, Becker was attempting to defraud his insurer. It was noted that Becker and his daughter were "not available for questioning". The report was signed by the investigating security officer: Jeff Jaeger. It all looked very routine, one incident report among the several dozen generated every day on Babylon 5. Case closed, filed away, and forgotten.

Import manifests indicated that Becker had stocked new inventory fairly regularly and paid his import fees on time and in full. His business license had been current at the time of the fire. He'd been officially warned once about "obstructing the flow of foot traffic" on the Zocalo as he distributed "political literature", but no formal charge had been filed.

"Computer," said Marcus. "Display initial boarding record."

The monitor screen blanked, then glowed back to life. Becker and Abbie had arrived on Babylon 5 on June 24, 2259. Their previous residence was listed as Mars Colony Number 3; prior to that, they'd lived on the Lunar Prime Colony, where Abbie had been born. (_Poor lass_, Marcus thought. _A whole lifetime under domes, breathing reprocessed air, she's never even seen a rainbow._)

There were two emergency contact addresses, both on the Mars Colony, both several years old. There was a list of routine documents that had been filed with the Chief Ombuds. Proofs of citizenship. Application for a business license.

A will.

Marcus felt his heartbeat quicken as he accessed the record.

**He could, of course, have simply hacked into the restricted Gold Channel for instant tachyon transmission of his call to the Orion 4 system. **But anything Marcus did on Abbie's behalf he wanted to do as straightforwardly and aboveboard as possible, an extension of his resolve never to lie to her. So, as policy dictated, he contact Sheridan to formally request permission. When the captain learned the purpose of the call, he authorized use of Gold at once, pausing only to ask, "How did you even _know_ about the Gold Ch—sorry. Stupid question."

"Never underestimate a Ranger, sir."

By Marcus' calculations, as 0100 hours approached on Babylon 5, it was late afternoon at the New Kenosha colony in Orion 4. As he waited for the communication to be answered, Marcus found he was holding his breath. His mouth had gone dry and his hands were cold.

"Hello?" A woman's face, middle-aged, plain, and pleasant, appeared on the Babcom monitor. She had a weather-roughened complexion and soft brown hair touched with gray. Her voice was cheerful, and her small bright eyes, despite crows' feet, brought an attractiveness to otherwise unremarkable features.

"Virginia Wakefield, please."

"'Virgie'," she corrected him, with a smile that revealed slightly buck teeth. "This is she." Her face came closer as she leaned toward her own comm monitor, curious, waiting for him to continue. Marcus took a deep breath and plunged in.

"You don't know me, Mrs. Wakefield. My name is Marcus Cole. I'm calling on behalf of Hal Becker."

Virgie Wakefield's mouth formed a soft, wondering circle as she drew a sharp breath. "Hal! It's been so long since I heard a word from him—" She broke off, then said hesitantly, "Did Hal ask you to call me, Mr. Cole? Has something—happened?"

As gently as he could, he told her.

Her image on the monitor was motionless. Then her lips and chin began to quiver, and tears flooded her eyes to course down softly sagging cheeks. "No," she said at last. "Oh, no. No. Dear God, Abbie! Is Abbie all right?"

"Yes. She's fine. Actually, she's why I'm calling."

Virgie Wakefield swallowed hard, sniffed, rubbed a large, capable hand over her eyes, and looked determinedly into her monitor. "Please go on, Mr. Cole." Her voice was steady. "Please tell me everything."

**At least, Abbie thought, she hadn't wakened Susan last night.** She'd had a new and terrible dream. It had started all right: sheltered in Marcus' arms, she'd been crying for Papa against Marcus' shoulder, sad but safe. Then, without warning, Marcus was gone and _That Man_ was holding her, smiling down at her with his horrible smile, laughing his horrible laugh, and Abbie suddenly knew that That Man would have her forever. She tried to scream for help and could not.

Her terror had been so great that she couldn't even scream when she woke. Her heart was beating so hard it almost choked her, so that she could barely breathe. She crushed Baloo close, weeping noiselessly into the bear's dark-brown plush fur, while Susan slept on, undisturbed. Eventually, Abbie had drifted back to sleep.

She woke up when Susan did, still tied up in knots inside, and quietly washed and dressed, watching Susan get ready for duty.

Susan was busy. A Lieutenant Corwin called her on her handlink, apologizing for calling so early but then going right on with what he wanted to say. Someone or other (Abbie didn't catch the name) was coming to Babylon 5 and requesting full ambassadorial status. Susan told Corwin to call Captain Sheridan. A few minutes later, the captain called her about the exact same thing, and between quick gulps of juice Susan said, "Uh-huh…yes, sir…I'll take care of it."

"Just run the paperwork, will you?" the captain's disembodied voice said. "I'll smooth it over with Londo and the League members. I don't think Kosh or Delenn will have any trouble with it. We have to make this work, Susan. They're ready to pull out of here, and take a dozen trade partners with them."

"I'm on it," Susan assured him, and linked off. Turning to set her juice glass down, she spotted Abbie and smiled, a little too quickly, a "sorry-I-forgot-you-were-here" smile. "Those Gneissh!" she said, as though Abbie was supposed to know who or what "Gneissh" were. "It's going to be one of those days. Don't you want some breakfast?"

"I'm waiting for Marcus."

"Oh. Okay. I guess he'll be here soon—"

Abbie almost said, "Why don't you just _go_? You don't have to bother about me." She could hear the words coming out of her mouth, and they sounded so nasty, even in her head, that she stopped herself just in time. Instead, she went to smooth down her bed.

Then she heard the door chime, and Marcus saying, in a little-boy singsong, "Good morning, Commander, can Abbie come out and play?"

Her heart suddenly lightened and relief overwhelmed her, as it had when she'd found him in Medlab. He was all right, he was there, he wanted her, there was still somebody who cared about her—

She almost knocked over a chair as she bolted from the bedroom and flew to hug him.

"I'll take that as a 'Good morning'," Marcus said, gently disentangling her. "Hope it all goes better today, Susan. Come on, love. Ready for breakfast?"

"You have to be at Medlab—"

"—at 0900 sharp. Yes, ma'am. That still leaves us plenty of time."

Over a wonderful breakfast at the Eclipse Café, he asked, "Sleep all right last night?"

"Well—" Abbie let it drop. She didn't want to remember it. Marcus looked at her thoughtfully, then focused his attention back on his meal, acknowledging her right to talk about it or not as she chose. Given that freedom, she paradoxically felt she owed him an explanation. "It's just, I dreamed about That Man again."

He nodded, unsurprised. "I expect you will for a while yet. Doesn't it help to know you're safe from him?"

She didn't answer right away. To admit her fear would be like saying she didn't trust him to protect her. But it would be lying to say she wasn't afraid. "He's still out there somewhere," she said finally.

Marcus smiled, that same confident, deeply satisfied smile he'd displayed on the core shuttle when he and Lennier brought her topside. "Still out there, yes, but he's Downbelow and you're here. Mr. Garibaldi's people are going to find him soon and clap him in irons, and in the meantime I'm looking after you."

"But, maybe they won't find him." She tried to sound like she didn't care.

"They will, love. They will. Count on it."

He really believed it, she realized; and she knew that when a grown-up (even Marcus, it seemed) really believed something, nothing a kid could say was going to change his mind. He was still smiling. A different smile now, a secret sort of smile, accompanied by a look in his eyes that went right past Abbie and didn't include her. The kind of smile people wore without realizing it when they were thinking about something fun or exciting. Almost the sort of smile that some of Bettina's customers had come in wearing sometimes—

Abbie turned _that_ thought off right away and concentrated on finishing her breakfast.

In Medlab, Abbie sat outside the closed exam room door, waiting and waiting. It seemed to take Dr. Franklin forever to do whatever he had to do for Marcus. Then they started talking; Abbie could hear their voices, speaking low, through the door, but she couldn't make out the words. Curious, leaning a little closer, she suddenly stopped and hung her head, mortified.

Listening at doors was _rude_. She could almost hear Papa's voice saying, "Abbie, I taught you better than that." What would he think if he saw her now?

_Could_ he see her now? Was there still some part of him, somewhere, watching?

She moved to a chair far from the door and sat to wait, blinking back tears and swallowing them down. The instant the exam room door moved she wiped her eyes and went to meet Marcus and the doctor, so they wouldn't think she'd run away again. Dr. Franklin said to her, "Good job, Abbie, he's doing fine. I ought to put you on staff."

"I didn't really do anything," she demurred.

"You got him to get some sleep yesterday afternoon, and that's more than we could do," the doctor responded, a twinkle in his eye. Abbie understood then that she was being teased, in a nice kind of way. Franklin bestowed a smile on her, then said to Marcus, "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You take it easy, now." And something passed between them, an unspoken communication which Abbie sensed but didn't understand. Grown-ups' stuff again.

"Do you have to go back?" she asked as they left Medlab.

"Not for a couple of days," he responded carelessly. "After all, I've got you on special nursing duty, haven't I?" They rapidly left Blue sector behind, heading into Red and toward the Zocalo. The child's footsteps slowed.

"Marcus? Can we— I mean, can we just not do anything _important_ today?"

She'd come close to crying once already this morning. She didn't want to go near where she and Papa had lived; she didn't want to answer questions, not even from Marcus. For now, she just wanted to try and forget that she didn't belong anywhere.

He reached out to tweak one of her curls, and she rubbed her head up against his hand like an affectionate puppy. "We shall spend the day as frivolously as you like," he promised. "Hello, Lennier, where'd you pop up from?"

The young Minbari had indeed approached so quietly that Abbie hadn't noticed him. He put his hands together, waist-high and palms inward, in the ritual Minbari gesture of respect—one palm laid over the back of the other hand, thumbs touching at the tips to form a triangle with the hands—and gave a formal little bow. "Miss Becker. Marcus," he greeted them. Marcus returned the gesture and the bow as though he'd been born Minbari. Abbie nodded, not sure if she should bow too but thinking it might be rude if she somehow did it wrong. She was a little dazzled at being addressed as "Miss Becker", as though she were a grown-up lady.

Lennier went on, "Delenn has suggested to me that, as I have never interacted for long with a Human child, it would be a profitable experience for me to spend some time with you. Providing, of course, that it is convenient."

"Sounds fine to me," said Marcus. "Abbie?"

At that moment, she made a remarkable discovery. She wasn't scared. She wasn't even nervous. For the first time in many weeks, she faced a new experience without her first thought being whether or not it could hurt her. Her confidence in Marcus was absolute by now, and this was Lennier—Marcus' friend, who had come with him Downbelow just to help find her, Abbie, and bring her to safety.

"Sure," she said.

The instant the word was out of her mouth, it happened again, with the briefest hint of a smile at the corner of Marcus' mouth, the suggestion of a nod from Lennier. A whole unspoken conversation in two seconds' time, from which she was left out, for the second time in just a few minutes. The familiar unease came back to her and coiled into its customary cold knot just above her stomach.

"Just one thing," she added, in the best bid she could make to not be left out. "Promise you won't talk Minbari to each other in front of me. _Promise_."

"I promise," said Marcus, and lightly touched his Ranger brooch.

**As Sheridan had expected, neither Delenn nor the Vorlon ambassador, Kosh, objected to according ambassadorial rank and full diplomatic privileges to Maltir, First Minister of the Gneissh Consortium, who was already on his way to Babylon 5 to confer with Trade Minister Questal about the disruptions to their commerce.** The representatives of the League of Non-Aligned Worlds, however, were touchy as to how granting such privileges would reflect on their own status. And Londo Mollari was openly scornful of the idea at the meeting Sheridan had hastily convened.

"Great Maker!" the Centauri exclaimed. "Is every petty official to be made an ambassador in these days? Bad enough, if you will forgive my saying so, that we who represent the major races must deal with the like of the Pak'ma'ra!"

The Pak'ma'ra representative did not forgive his saying so, and immediately moved to grant diplomatic status to First Minister Maltir. The motion was seconded at once, simultaneously, by the Drazi and Brakiri ambassadors, both of whom declared themselves mortally insulted by Mollari's comment. Indeed, they almost came to blows over whose race had been more badly disparaged. The Llort representative shouted above the din to call for an immediate vote. A forest of appendages was raised in favor of the proposal—including, at the very last second, the hand of Londo Mollari, who gave a gusty, world-weary sigh and said, "Very well, very well, if we must. Anything to keep the peace, yes?"

In his own inimitable fashion, Londo had helped Sheridan accomplish his goal. Nonetheless, the captain didn't know which of the impulses warring in him was stronger—to laugh at Londo, or to break his neck on the spot.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

**Downbelow, as always, rumors were simmering. ** Plainclothes-clad security officers, both Human and Narn, and two Human Rangers, kept their ears open and their mouths, for the most part, shut.

Garibaldi entrusted his usual patrol of the station to Zack Allan and holed up in his office, correlating messages as they came in. One or two at a time, at first; then more frequently, and in clusters.

Toward the end of his duty shift, the security chief authorized the release, under electronic surveillance, of a few small-time hoods being held in the brig. "_Sir?_" said the startled officer who took the call.

"You heard right. Do it."

He hated springing those punks early. But if the cards fell his way, Garibaldi knew that in a few hours he'd need all the room he could get in the brig.

**Throughout the day, Marcus kept an eye out for the security officer who unobtrusively tailed him, Abbie, and Lennier.** Garibaldi's people were really very good. It sometimes took Marcus a full three minutes to spot the man. Keeping an eye on the man who was keeping an eye on him, Marcus assured himself that Garibaldi could summon him in an instant, and he was able to relax.

He and Lennier taught Abbie a few sentences of Minbari, careful not to so much as smile at her initial absurd mispronunciations. The three investigated the ice-cream parlor with the thirty-seven flavors; Lennier, tasting chocolate ice cream for the first time in his life, observed that this was indeed a day of wonders. Abbie suggested another round of Kim's game, soon withdrawing from competition herself to keep score for her companions, eventually awarding Lennier her highest accolade: "You're really _smart!_"

In such gentle pastimes, the hours went by. Marcus took his medications punctiliously, surreptitiously adding a pain pill to the dosage in the late afternoon. He was reasonably comfortable, but he wanted nothing hampering him whenever he went forth against the Hunter. Soon, now. Surely it would be soon. He had to admit, privately and to himself, that part of his pleasure in this quiet day with Abbie and Lennier had come precisely from anticipation, the knowledge that it could end at any time.

"Are you _sure_ you can't stay for dinner?" Abbie wheedled when they dropped her off at Ivanova's quarters.

"Not twice in a row, love. Let's not wear out my welcome. I'll come by in time for breakfast tomorrow, all right?"

"Okay," she assented, reluctantly. Then, remembering her manners, she turned to Lennier, said, "It was lots of fun having you along," and executed a perfect little Minbari bow. Lennier returned the bow as he would to an equal and responded, "It was most enjoyable."

"Am I correct in assuming that she is an unusually intelligent Human child?" Lennier asked as he and Marcus headed down the corridor away from Ivanova's quarters.

"Absolutely."

"And your assessment, of course, is quite objective."

"Completely," Marcus asserted, steadfastly ignoring the half-smile on his friend's face. "Thanks for sticking with us, Lennier, and thank Delenn for me. I hope it won't be for much longer."

Lennier lowered his voice and spoke in Minbari. "Then you have no idea when Mr. Garibaldi will contact you?"

"Just an instinct. Soon, I think," Marcus replied, in the same language.

"I am at your disposal for as long as necessary."

They paused at the transition corridor where they would part, Lennier to return to Green sector while Marcus retired to his quarters here in Blue. "You will be careful, of course," Lennier said. His tone of voice, and the Minbari subdialect he chose, put the remark somewhere between a simple observation and an admonition.

"Garibaldi's Rule Number Two: no heroics, no big risks."

"That," Lennier pointed out, "is not exactly what I said."

"No, it isn't," Marcus agreed. With an exchange of bows, the two friends parted. Marcus felt an upsurge of confidence, reflecting that he would certainly be remembered in Lennier's prayers tonight.

The first thing he did on entering his quarters was to check for messages. Nothing; not from New Kenosha, not from Stephen, not from Susan. Briefly, he considered placing another call to New Kenosha, but decided it was better not to start pushing quite yet.

He made a light meal on a cup of tea and the contents of an insta-heat pack, then lighted the candles on the Valen shrine and eased himself down into the lotus position before it. Meditation still didn't come readily to him; he would probably never achieve the seemingly effortless serenity he saw in Lennier and Delenn. He had finally learned to value it, though. He was sure that its practice made him a better Ranger, a better warrior, a more complete man. It was the best preparation he could make for an encounter with Jaeger.

"Lights down point seven-five," he said. In the dimness, one-quarter of the standard light level, Marcus focused on one of the candle flames. Gradually, time and space began to slide away. There was only the flicker of light. No thoughts; no desires; only light . . . .

When the Babcom signal did reach his consciousness, he couldn't have said how much time had passed or how long the signal had been going on. He rose in a smooth, unhurried motion to answer it.

"Where the hell have you been?" Garibaldi demanded. "You want in on this, be at my office in five minutes."

"Right."

Even taking the time to extinguish the candles in their proper order, and without feeling hurried at all, Marcus made it to the security office with a minute and a half to spare.

**There. Final. Complete.** The single, decisive blow that would bring Babylon 5, as it were, to its knees. Jaeger tidied his notes into a neat stack, corners precisely aligned, and slipped the pages into a drawer.

His usual practice was to destroy his notes as soon as an operation was complete. That wouldn't be necessary this time—nor even desirable. When a proper Earthforce commanding officer stepped onto the deck in C and C and said, "Lucky for us this happened," the notes would be Jaeger's proof that it hadn't been luck at all. Not that he wanted the credit. It wasn't that at all. But Earthforce should know—EarthGov should know—that there was still at least one patriot left on Babylon 5.

Jaeger stood up and smoothed down his shirt. It would be so good to get back into his own clothes again, to resume the Earthforce uniform that Sheridan and Ivanova and the others had repudiated. Carefully brushed, tenderly folded away, the uniform waited in another drawer. Resting atop it was his neatly-folded Nightwatch armband.

He would wear them at Sheridan's court-martial.

The others might get away with it. They could make a good argument that they were following orders. They could even contend that they were going along with Sheridan's behavior as a means of gathering information to use against him. But Sheridan himself already stood condemned. He'd been the one to make the actual break from EarthGov's authority; and he'd done it very, very publicly.

The penalty for treason was spacing.

For a blissful moment, Jaeger lingered over a mental picture of Sheridan tumbling, unprotected from an airlock, arms and legs flailing as he expended his final breath. Did the lungs implode or explode in the vacuum of space? Jaeger couldn't remember.

It didn't matter. Spacing meant certain death, though a swifter one than a traitor deserved, and that was all that counted.

Jaeger stepped forth from his quarters. The final conflict was at hand.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**Plan all you want (thought Garibaldi), figure every possible angle, but in the end a big operation like this was always a crapshoot.** You never knew what might pop up and queer the whole deal. A time always came when all you could do was wait, knowing what you planned to do, ready to do whatever you had to when the cards were finally dealt.

He waited now, cradling his PPG in his hand, pressed up against a bulkhead in the twilight and the unsavory smells of Brown sector. Jaeger should be coming this way and pass this corner any minute now—providing the intelligence reports were accurate. Providing that he hadn't somehow caught on.

Garibaldi could hear his own heartbeat, it was that quiet. Without moving or turning his head, he cut his eyes to see if Marcus was still hovering at his elbow. He wasn't. He had simply vanished.

Par for the course. Melting soundlessly into thin air was a favorite Ranger tactic, though only God and the Minbari knew just how they did it. Marcus wasn't far. No way was he going to miss out on this. Garibaldi fingered the trigger on the PPG. The weapon was set to stun: Sheridan's orders.

Footsteps now, firm, quick, confident. Three figures emerged from the gloom: Jaeger, flanked by two guards. Three against two, the two with the element of surprise on their side. Garibaldi approved of the odds. He took a two-handed grip on the PPG and prepared to make his move.

Then, like a thunderbolt, Marcus struck.

Pike in hand, he leaped from a catwalk overhead, dropping right in front of the guard farthest from Garibaldi. With one slash of the pike, he slammed the man against the bulkhead. Garibaldi's PPG blast downed the second guard.

Swift and savage as a jungle cat, Marcus turned on Jaeger.

Jaeger lunged at him, grabbing at the pike. Marcus spun. Jaeger's own momentum forced him off balance and past the Ranger. Marcus smashed the pike across Jaeger's left shoulder and drove him, face first, into the bulkhead. The crash resounded down the corridor. Marcus seized Jaeger's collar, flung him to the deck, and. threw himself down to pin the prisoner with one knee on his chest. Gripping the pike at both ends, he pressed it down, hard, against Jaeger's throat.

Garibaldi was already cuffing the two semiconscious guards. _Well,_ he thought, _Marcus wanted to see his face. Looks like he's got a ringside seat_

Marcus, panting, grinned demoniacally. "I will take the least excuse," he said, "to snap your windpipe. Do oblige me."

Jaeger lay like a stone. Blood was running from his nose.

Garibaldi moved in, PPG trained on the prisoner, and said, "Okay, I've got him covered. Let's cuff him."

For a moment, Marcus didn't respond. Then, slowly, he got to his feet, pivoting the pike as he did so, resting its tip on Jaeger's throat, poised to inflict a lethal jab if Jaeger tried anything. Garibaldi moved in with the cuffs. Only when the restraints were in place did Marcus, reluctantly, step back and withdraw the pike.

Jaeger coughed, staggering a little as Garibaldi hauled him upright. His bleeding face remained expressionless.

"Want me to tell you your rights?" Garibaldi asked. "No, wait a minute—that's right—you used to work for me. You can recite 'em to me."

Jaeger swallowed painfully and uttered one hoarse sentence:

"I want my uniform."

**The raid was a complete success**. Very quickly, the brig was jammed full. Sheridan ordered Ivanova to arrange for one of the smaller cargo bays to be converted into a makeshift second brig.

Ivanova was used to being wakened with urgent tasks in the middle of the night. With her usual efficiency she gave the necessary orders, waited for status reports, and had the conversion accomplished within forty minutes. She reported to the captain; then, with a yawn, she downed the lights and made her way back to bed. There was still time to get in a couple more hours' sleep.

"Is everything okay?" came an anxious whisper from the darkness.

Ivanova could have sworn that Abbie had slept through the whole thing. Certainly she'd made a point of keeping her own voice down and dealing with the entire matter from the living room to avoid disturbing the child. "Everything's fine," she answered, sliding back into bed. "Something came up I had to take care of. Go back to sleep."

_Maybe I should tell her they've caught Jaeger_, Ivanova thought. Then: _No. Not a good idea to bring him up in the middle of the night and then expect her to get back to sleep._ She yawned and found a comfortable position. In the dark and quiet, she started drifting away.

"Susan?"

"Uh-hunh?"

"Marcus is okay, isn't he?"

Ivanova lifted her head from the pillow, wondering what had brought this question on. "Sure he is, honey. You were with him all day—all yesterday," she corrected herself. "You know he's all right."

"Yeah. I guess."

"So go to sleep now, okay?"

"Okay."

Abbie stayed quiet. Ivanova settled back down, but instead of drifting off again she lay thinking. Remembering. Those awful nights of her own childhood; the sudden awakenings in unfamiliar beds as she was shunted from school to school, always trying to keep her a jump ahead of the Psi Corps. The terror that assailed her without warning in the night for ages after her mother's death: _who would be next?_ She would creep out of bed at night sometimes, tiptoeing to her father's room, or downstairs if she had to, just to see him, just to make sure that he hadn't left her too.

Ivanova shifted abruptly to her other side, irritably thumping and rearranging her pillow. Damn Jaeger. Damn the Psi Corps. Damn everyone, anywhere, who robbed children of their innocence.

**Jaeger, blood drying on his still-expressionless face, was put into a cell by himself**. Except for his request for his uniform, which Garibaldi summarily refused, he hadn't spoken a word. Neither had Marcus, who had accompanied them, pike in hand, ready to ensure that Jaeger wouldn't escape should he be foolish enough to try.

As soon as Jaeger was secured, Marcus nodded a wordless good-bye to Garibaldi, pocketed the _denn'bok_, and went his own way, heading slowly for his quarters. He hadn't felt a thing during the capture except the tingling suspense of the hunt and the sweet, heady rush of revenge as Jaeger went down. Now, success behind him, he was feeling the consequences of the combat, brief and one-sided though it had been. It was more than the dull throb that would simply have signaled the need for an analgesic dose. The partly-healed wound hurt insistently, almost as badly as it had the day he received it, and it hurt worse with every minute. It hurt to breathe. It was even beginning to hurt to walk, each step punctuated by a little spark of pain.

Unfair, really. He'd observed Garibaldi's Rule Number Two to the letter—no heroics, no big risks, he'd been in complete control of the situation the whole time. He'd done a thousand training exercises more demanding than this. By rights, he should be heading blithely off to bed—

Abbie would expect him at breakfast time, and he couldn't fail her.

Better to at least get checked out. Now _that_ was the most unfair thing of all, having to report to Stephen anyway, after everything had gone so well.

But it was Dr. Lilian Hobbes, not Franklin, who looked up from the desk and said, "What happened to _you?_" as Marcus entered Medlab. Almost enough to make a man believe in luck.

"Bit of pike practice," he answered semi-truthfully. "Might have overdone it."

"Let's have a look."

Her examination, while thorough, was gentle. The worst part of all, for Marcus, was simply stripping down to the waist. The pain impeded every movement no matter how carefully he eased his garments off, and lying down on the exam table was an exercise in slow caution. Dr. Hobbes removed the dressing, scanned the wound, nodded thoughtfully, and went to a drug cabinet.

"You are living proof that the good Lord looks out for idiots," she told him, selecting two hypo-packs. "See that bruise starting? You've started an internal bleed. Not serious, but I'll bet it hurts like hell."

"A bit."

"A _bit_. I stand corrected. Here we go." She administered the hypos one by one. "Whoever says _doctors_ make rotten patients should try taking care of Rangers . . . I've given you a mild clotting agent, and something for that 'bit' of discomfort. Can I trust you to stay still for twenty minutes to see how they take?"

"Of course," he assured her, all innocent cooperation.

"All right. Just stay where you are. I'll be back."

He felt slightly foolish now, coming to Medlab for something that wasn't serious after all. He had swung the pike hard, left to right, when he'd smashed the Hunter into the bulkhead. Probably that was when he'd started the bleed.

He smiled. _Worth it_, he thought, and then, with wry self-congratulations, _Got away with it again. This time, anyway._

One day, in all likelihood, he wouldn't get away with it. . . .

Marcus shifted impatiently. Would he find a message from New Kenosha waiting in his quarters?

Hadn't twenty minutes already passed?

Dr. Hobbes returned promptly, performed another exam with a leisurely thoroughness that nearly drove him wild, and said, "Well, since staying out of trouble isn't your strong suit, it's just as well you respond so nicely to treatment. The bleed's stopped. Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you."

She applied a fresh dressing. "You can go now. It'll be tender there for a few days. Call right away if the pain becomes acute."

He got dressed quickly, moving easily now, while Dr. Hobbes tidied away the wrappings from the dressing pack. With a nod of thanks, he slid from the table and had started to leave when the doctor spoke again.

"Now that the trouble's over Downbelow, I suggest you wait a few days to resume your pike practice."

He turned back to face her, eyebrows lifted inquiringly. "Trouble Downbelow?"

Two deep dimples showed as she controlled a smile. "Dr. Franklin's in Medlab Three, patching up a few people who didn't want to be arrested. Rumor has it there was a major law-enforcement sweep this evening."

"Chancy thing, rumor. Don't trust it, myself."

Dr. Hobbes shooed him off with a laugh and a dismissive gesture. Marcus returned to his quarters, hopefully checked the Babcom for messages—nothing—and left a message of his own for Lennier, letting him know the raid had been accomplished and Jaeger taken.

His narrow bed had seldom been so welcome. Just before he fell asleep, he remembered to set a wake-up alert for the morning.

He didn't need it. Some thirty minutes before it was due to activate, he was awakened by the discomfort of his wound, and by the insistent Babcom signal of an incoming message.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

**Like Ivanova, Brothers Bernard and Aquinas took being disturbed in the middle of Babylon 5's artificial night as a matter of course.** Indeed, Bernard was already awake, silently absorbed as he monitored the station's computer functions, when Zack Allan came. Zack brought the notes that had been confiscated from Jaeger's quarters, the news of the arrests, and Sheridan's request that Bernard and Aquinas make whatever sense they could of Jaeger's notes.

Several hours later, very early in the morning watch, two hollow-eyed and disheveled monks ventured softly into C and C. Brother Bernard's voice was hesitant as he requested a few minutes of the captain's time. At once, Sheridan brought the monks to his office.

After refusing the captain's offer of tea and clearing his throat several times, Bernard said, "Captain Sheridan, we have deciphered—this." He laid the notes down on Sheridan's desk with an air of distaste; the captain half-expected him to wipe his hand clean.

Brother Aquinas, as usual, took up the explanation. "Captain, this document is another rogue program. It is designed to affect computer commands issued by the jumpgate."

"Affect them how?"

Aquinas ran his tongue over his lips. "As I understand your system, the jumpgate receives an identity code from each ship approaching Babylon 5 through hyperspace. It then transmits that code to your Command and Control center."

"That's right. That's how we register arrivals and departures."

"Captain—were this program in place on the system, the jumpgate computer would no longer merely register and transmit these codes. It would respond to them in one of three ways, depending on the type of identity code it received."

"Go on."

"If it received an alien identity code, the jumpgate computer would issue commands designed to reverse the ship's course and disable its tracking and communications systems. This would, of course, trap the vessel in hyperspace. I understand that you have been able to rescue a ship from such a situation, but—"

"One ship," Sheridan said. "One time." He understood the implications of what Aquinas was saying, and he didn't like them at all. "In the situation you've just described, the ship in question would probably be trapped for good. It would depend on how thoroughly this program could interfere with an alien ship's technology." And at best, the captain reflected—even assuming that an alien vessel thrust into hyperspace somehow survived and made it back to normal space—her crew must interpret the incident as either gross incompetence, or outright hostility, on the part of Babylon 5. "You say this is the response to an alien identity code?"

"Yes, Captain. Any ship not of Human origin."

Brother Bernard shook his head, muttering, "Diabolical. Diabolical."

Aquinas glanced at him sympathetically and went on, "An Earth vessel's identity code would evoke one of two responses. Any civilian vessel would be regarded, and treated, as a hostile invader. The station's defense systems would be set to destroy it, immediately and without warning. Very probably, you and your officers would have no chance to override the automated commands."

Peaceful alien ships consigned to oblivion; civilian Human ships blasted to bits . . . "And what would happen to Earthforce military ships?"

"Nothing." It was Brother Bernard who replied in a soft, mournful voice. "Nothing. A vessel transmitting an Earth military identity code would come through the jumpgate without difficulty. At the same time, the station's blast doors would be opened, and all your defensive systems disabled."

The whole scenario rolled through Sheridan's mind. Babylon 5, transformed by its own jumpgate into a death trap for any ship that approached. Then, no doubt at a signal from Jaeger, an Earthforce fleet sweeping in from hyperspace to seize the helpless station. Once held by President Clark's Shadow-tainted government, Babylon 5 would be lost as a bastion against the coming darkness—a loss that might very well tip the balance, permanently, in the Shadows' favor.

Sheridan's blood ran cold as he realized the magnitude of the potential disaster, and how narrowly it had just been averted. The fact that his own life would certainly have been forfeit registered momentarily, and was dismissed.

"Is there _any_ _trace_ of this program on the station's systems?" he demanded.

"No! Of course not," replied Aquinas, shocked. "Captain, I assure you, we had your duty officer initiate a shutdown of the jumpgate computer as soon as we realized what the program was designed to do. We, and several others of our Order, ran extensive diagnostics on all systems to ensure that they were safe."

In his engineering-professor voice, Brother Bernard began to explain, "I have devised a diagnostic program that—"

"Is _most_ effective," Aquinas cut him off adroitly. "You may be assured, Captain, there is no danger."

Sheridan believed him. "Once again, gentlemen," he said, "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done."

Brother Bernard replied, "Captain. You are not alone in your desire to combat evil. The opportunity to give any help in that same holy cause was a privilege." Indicating the document on Sheridan's desk, he asked, "Will you see to it that _this_ is destroyed?"

"It'll be kept guarded for however long we need it as evidence. Then, I promise, it will be destroyed."

Bernard, looking at the document, shook his head and murmured, "Such a waste. Such a waste. I must pray for this man Jaeger."

**Marcus arrived as Ivanova was leaving her quarters for duty.** Abbie, aglow, her arms wide, ran to meet him, announcing, "You were right! They got him!"

"I know, love."

"You _know?_ How?" the child demanded.

"Careful," he admonished her suddenly, "it aches a bit this morning. No, don't worry, it's all right, you didn't hurt me.—How do I know? I hear things. I find things out. That's what Rangers do."

"Among other things," Ivanova commented dryly, giving Marcus a casual glance up and down. He had turned quickly to protect his left side from Abbie's embrace, and he seemed altogether a little worn around the edges. It didn't take a genius to figure out how he'd known about Jaeger's capture, but he seemed to have come through it in one piece.

Marcus' eyes met hers. At once, knowing that he hadn't fooled her for a second, he focused his attention on Abbie and said, "Ready for breakfast?"

"You two play nice," Ivanova said, and left for C and C.

Abbie's excitement, of course, had no effect on her appetite and she put away a substantial breakfast at Eclipse Café. From the bursts of conversation that punctuated the meal, Marcus learned that a call from Sheridan to Susan had wakened Abbie in the middle of the night, and that first thing this morning Susan had told her about the capture. "They caught a whole _lot_ of people," she told him. "Susan was really happy."

"A lot of credit goes to you, love. You were so brave about looking at those pictures, and that's how Mr. Garibaldi knew who to look for."

She bit her lip, suddenly subdued. Worrying her napkin between her fingers, she confessed, "I wasn't brave. I was scared."

"But you did it anyway. That's all courage is: going on when you're scared. I've met warrior-caste Minbari who weren't as brave as you."

"Anyway," she began. She obviously didn't want to think about the ordeal of reviewing the pictures, even in the context of praise. Marcus let it drop. "Anyway," he echoed, pushing back his chair. "Let's take a walk. I have news for you."

The hand she slipped unhesitatingly into his was cold, and she didn't say a word but simply trotted along beside him. He led her to the Zen Garden: that quiet and tranquil place would afford a measure of privacy for this conversation.

The Zen Garden was deserted just now, offering its simple beauty to them alone. Marcus sat down on the stone bench. Abbie withdrew her hand from his and stood in front of him with the air of a prisoner in the dock awaiting her sentence. She ignored the inviting pat he gave to the open space beside him. He could see the pulse leaping in her throat.

"Abbie, do you know what a will is?"

"I think so. Isn't that like when you say who gets your stuff when you die?"

"That's right. Clever girl. Well, if you have children, one of the things you put in your will is the name of someone you want to take care of them if you should die. That's called a 'guardian'."

She began to pale and the pulse in her throat leaped faster. Marcus went on steadily. "I found out that your father left a will, love; and he named a guardian for you. Do you remember a woman named Virginia Wakefield?"

She shook her head No and waited mutely for him to go on.

"She was a great friend of your mother's, and—"

"I don't remember her," Abbie burst out. "I don't remember her _or_ my mother."

Marcus couldn't think of any way to respond to that except simply to go on, very quietly. "Your father named her as your guardian in his will. Now, I've talked with her—"

"_When?_"

"This morning, and night before last."

The child, beginning to tremble, clenched her fists. "You _talked_ to her? About _me?_ And you didn't even _tell_ me?"

"Abbie, listen. Listen." Gently, he took hold of her shoulders. "Night before last, I told her your father had died. She didn't know. And I told her about you—"

"And she didn't want me. Nobody wants me."

"No, love, that's not true." Marcus was having trouble keeping his voice steady. "Listen, now. She wanted you right away; but she has a husband, and a daughter who's nearly grown. Before she could say Yes, she had to discuss it with them. Nothing was sure until then. I thought it would be better to wait to tell you until things were sure."

She swallowed twice, wringing her hands. "And?" she whispered.

"They want you, love. They all want you. She'll be here for you in about a week."

There. Said and done.

Abbie's eyes were enormous in a milk-white face. "You're just going to let her _come?_ You're going to let her just take me away?"

"Abbie, this isn't something I have any say in. This was the arrangement your father made."

She wrenched violently away from him, kicking wildly at a meticulously-raked gravel bed. Ornamental rocks and bits of gravel whizzed in all directions. Her pallor vanished as angry blood flooded her face.

"How could he _do_ that?" she half-sobbed, half-screamed. The tranquil patterns raked into the gravel dissolved under her frenzied kicking and stamping. "How could he just _give me away_ like that? To someone I _don't even know?_"

Marcus was on his feet, ready, but not yet willing, to intervene. "Love—"

"_Don't call me that!_ If you really loved me, you wouldn't let her take me away!" Abbie flung herself down on hands and knees, digging up two fistfuls of gravel. Marcus moved quickly, kneeling beside her in the ruin of the gravel bed to wrap his arms around her before she hurt herself. For a moment, she writhed wildly. "How could he do that?" she demanded again of the unheeding Universe. "How could he just give me away?"

"How could he go and die," said Marcus softly, "and leave you all alone?"

She was still shaking violently, like a bomb about to burst; but at his words, she stopped struggling and fell silent. Then, she broke. Her fists opened, releasing twin cascades of gravel, and tears began streaming silently down her face. Marcus drew her close. Her arms went around his neck, and she wept quietly for a long time.

Afterwards, seated close beside him on the stone bench, she murmured, "I'm sorry."

"For what? For crying? Nothing wrong with that."

"I wrecked it." She pointed at the gravel bed.

"We'll find a rake and fix it."

She looked down at her dusty hands with their bitten nails, their heels a little scraped from the gravel. Her whisper was barely audible. "I shouldn't have said that. About Papa."

Marcus put his arm around her shoulders, and she nestled against him. "It's all right, you know," he said. "It's all right to be angry with the dead."

"No, it isn't."

"Happens all the time," he went on. "When my brother died—Lord, who wasn't I angry with then? Angry with him, for dying. Angry at myself, for surviving when he was dead. Angry with the—with the disaster, for killing him." (He had almost said "the Shadows", but remembered and stopped himself in time.) "Angry with the whole bloody Universe and everything in it."

Abbie looked up at him. She still couldn't believe that the awful things she'd said were all right, even though it was Marcus saying they were. His face was thoughtful, and he looked out over the Zen Garden without really seeing it. She realized that he wasn't really talking to her any more, that his mind had moved elsewhere. And for all his talk about anger, he didn't look angry at all—just wistful, and a little bit sad.

Gradually, he returned to the present, and to her. He gave a sigh, smoothed her hair with his hand, and said, "Tell you the truth, love, I'm a bit angry at your father myself."

"_You_ are? How come?"

"For dying. For leaving you with no one to look out for you. For dying before I ever had the chance to know him, because I think he and I might have been friends."

She considered that, leaning against him; the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat provided a soothing background to her thoughts. "He would have liked you," she pronounced at last, adding defensively, "It wasn't his _fault_ that he died. He didn't _want_ to."

"I know. Doesn't make sense to be angry, then, does it? But there it is." He shrugged. "I'll get over it. So will you."

They fell silent again. Abbie sat so still, cradled against him, that Marcus began to wonder whether perhaps she'd worn herself out and fallen asleep.

"What's her name again? That guardian?"

"Virginia Wakefield. She goes by 'Virgie'."

After another long silence: "Maybe she'll be nice."

"I thought she was, when I talked to her," Marcus replied. "She lives on a farming colony called New Kenosha, in the Orion system. It's got a natural atmosphere. No domes. Look up and see a real sky."

She looked up with a glimmer of interest: "You mean, with clouds and stuff?"

"Clouds, sunrises, wind. Genuine weather of all kinds."

Abbie rubbed the back of her hand over the dried tears on her face. "It's just—I don't know her."

"Not so long ago," he pointed out, "you didn't know me."

"But that's different. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like I've known you a long time."

"Might be the same with Mrs. Wakefield, if you give it a chance."

Yet another silence. Abbie got up, knelt by the gravel bed, and began to smooth it with her hands. "Marcus? About what I said—I mean—I mean, I really like it when you call me 'love'." She didn't dare look at him when she said it.

He was speechless, momentarily unable to find words or to utter them once found. Recognition of how much he had come to mean to her simultaneously warmed and dismayed him. To respond to her in kind, to encourage her affection, would be irresponsible in the extreme, given the uncertainties of a Ranger's life.

But to take the only alternative and deny her—

He found himself on his feet, standing by her, bending down to gently twine one of her curls around his forefinger, smiling at the freckled little triangular face turned hopefully up to his. He made the only possible response.

"Love," he said; and then, straightening, he cleared his throat and went on, "Let's find a rake, shall we, and put things to rights?"

**Jaeger had received medical treatment for his broken nose.** Blood from the nose had stained the shirt in which he'd been captured; he was offered a clean one, which he refused, again demanding his Earthforce uniform. When that was denied, he chose to stay in the bloodied garment. He had been given food, and time to rest. Except for his demand for his uniform, he had remained silent since his capture.

Most of the cadre were similarly uncommunicative. Some rapped out name, rank, and Earthforce identity number with the steely resolution of prisoners of war. Others stared into space, ostentatiously ignoring the questions put to them by Garibaldi or Zack Allan. A few, less resolute, hinted that they might be willing to answer a question if Sheridan was willing to guarantee immunity from prosecution.

The prospect would have been discouraging, had Garibaldi actually expected or needed the prisoners' co-operation. As far as he was concerned, the fact that they had already been proved covert Nightwatch operatives was enough to justify whatever course of action Sheridan might devise. He went to meet with the captain, who he found in his office, brooding over a bundle of papers on his desk.

"Not a peep out of any of 'em," Garibaldi reported.

"Well, I expected as much," said Sheridan. He gestured toward the papers. "I'll be interested to know if Mr. Jaeger will have anything to say about this."

"The monks made some sense of it?"

"They did." Briefly, Sheridan explained the scheme outlined in the notes. Garibaldi listened intently, his heavy brows pulling into a scowl, and then let loose with a string of the most creative profanity Sheridan had ever heard.

"So now what?" Garibaldi finally asked. "We can't keep 'em in the brig forever. Any chance of just dumping 'em all out the nearest airlock?"

"I have to admit, it's tempting."

Garibaldi shook his head regretfully. "Yeah, but then there's that due-process thing. Rule of law, innocent till proven guilty—damn, I hate being the good guys."

Sheridan stood up, picking up the notes. "The Gneissh First Minister—excuse me, the Gneissh _Ambassador_—is due aboard in about half an hour. I want to give him the full diplomatic treatment. Then we'll show this to Mr. I-Demand-My-Uniform-Back and see what he has to say for himself."

Sheridan had a full honor guard, including Ivanova and Garibaldi, waiting at attention when the encounter-suited Ambassador Maltir plodded from his transport. Delenn stood nearby, representing both the government of Minbar and the Babylon 5 Advisory Council—Londo Mollari had declined to come, claiming he couldn't spare the time. The Drazi, Llort, and Pak'ma'ra representatives also waited to greet the Gneissh Ambassador.

Trade Minister Questal himself didn't come lumbering into sight until the moment his First Minister/Ambassador was due to arrive. When Maltir appeared—a Gneissh even more ungainly and stump-legged than Questal himself—Questal simply went up to him, waved a hand in Sheridan's general direction, and said, "Captain Sheridan."

Maltir turned toward the captain, who began, "Mr. Ambassador. Welcome to—"

"The problem is not solved." Maltir's voice was flat, almost as inflectionless as though he used an electronic translator.

"No, sir, the problem _is_ solved. We've caught the man who was causing the problem."

The Gneissh's dull little eyes blinked behind the face shield of his encounter suit. Sheridan had no idea what the eye blink was intended to register—surprise? Satisfaction?

Maltir turned away. "I go to my quarters."

"Certainly, Mr. Ambassador," said Ivanova smoothly, stepping forward with her usual self-possession. "I've arranged space in Green sector—"

Maltir thrust his head forward, peering through the shield into her face. "Talk is waste." He gestured impatiently toward the doorway leading from the reception area.

"Of course," Ivanova acquiesced, with a tight little smile. "This way." Maltir and Questal followed her past the honor guard, past Delenn, past the Drazi, the Llort, and the Pak'ma'ra. Delenn bowed deeply in the gracious Minbari fashion as Maltir passed, and was ignored. The Drazi representative began spluttering indignantly in his own language. Sheridan, who had a smattering of Drazi, caught a word or two and hoped fervently that the Gneissh either hadn't heard or hadn't understood it.

"Nice guy," Garibaldi commented _sotto voce_. "Remind me to invite him to my wake."

**Abbie took a long time and great pains to restore the gravel bed.** She insisted on doing all the work herself, refusing Marcus' help; she had destroyed it, and she would fix it. He watched in respectful silence as she retrieved every last tiny bit of the scattered gravel. She raked a new pattern into the bed, studied it, then raked the gravel smooth again and started over. It took five different designs before she created one that satisfied her. Finally, with care, she replaced the ornamental rocks one by one, adjusting each until she was fully pleased with its effect before she reached for the next.

She couldn't tell, once she had finished, whether it was as good as before she'd ruined it. Neither she nor Marcus remembered what the bed had looked like when they'd entered the Zen Garden. But it was orderly again, and beautiful; and for now, Abbie was content.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

**Ambassador Maltir warmed up a little bit on the way to Green sector, Ivanova reported, with the poker face that indicated one of her sardonic stages.** He had asked what would be done to the man who had caused the problem. Ivanova answered that it hadn't yet been decided, that the man was an Earth citizen and would be dealt with by Earth's legal standards. "I didn't bother to mention that right now EarthGov would probably pin a medal on him for screwing with our computer systems," she told Sheridan.

"Thank you, Commander. I appreciate that."

"Not at all, sir."

The exchange was light-hearted, but the dilemma was real. Getting fair trials, even convictions, for the prisoners, was—theoretically—possible. Several Ombuds and a handful of public advocates had agreed to remain aboard the station, exercising their functions, after Babylon 5's secession from EarthGov authority. And some convictions were foregone conclusions. Jaeger's guilt was documented by his own notes. Charles Remmick had already confessed to the attempt on Marcus' life, as well as giving the names of other members of the assassination squad.

But even given the likelihood of fair trials and valid convictions, the basic question remained of where to keep the prisoners until trial and what to do with them after conviction. Babylon 5 simply wasn't set up to handle a long-term prison population. The brig and holding cells were designed to serve as temporary custodial facilities; suspects in major crimes were supposed to be sent to their respective homeworlds for trial. That was out of the question now. Ivanova's mordant quip was accurate: President Clark's government _would_ pin a medal on Jaeger for his attempt to ruin Babylon 5.

"Your airlock idea is sounding better all the time," the captain told Garibaldi with grim humor as they proceeded toward their confrontation with Jaeger.

Jaeger was still flanked by two guards, but this time they were Zack Allan and a Narn member of Garibaldi's staff. The prisoner stood waiting behind the table in the interrogation room, wrists manacled, head held high as though in proud display of his swollen nose and the livid bruise left on his throat by Marcus' pike. A sour little smile touched his lips as Sheridan and Garibaldi walked in.

"I want my uniform," Jaeger said. Zack rolled his eyes and shook his head as though to say, _Here we go again_.

Sheridan strode toward the table and, with a theatrical gesture, slapped the packet of notes down onto it. "Your uniform. Why? Do you think you still deserve to wear that uniform?"

Jaeger laughed, an easy chuckle, like a man who's just heard an amusing joke. He sat down in one of the chairs behind the table. "Now, that's rich," he said, stretching out his legs to prop them up on the table.

The Narn guard seized the prisoner's ankles and thrust his feet towards the floor. Jaeger shot the guard a glance of unadulterated venom. Then, regaining his self-control, he turned back to Sheridan, who'd taken the chair across from him.

"That's really rich," he repeated, nodding toward Sheridan's own garments. "The man who turned his back on his own people asks if _I_ deserve to wear the Earthforce uniform. Well, _Captain_, it still means something to some of us."

"It means this?" said Sheridan, stabbing a forefinger at the notes. "It means slaughtering civilians—including Human civilians? It means sending ships to be trapped in hyperspace?"

For a moment, Jaeger's poise was compromised, his expression betraying shock that his notes had been accurately deciphered. Sheridan pressed his advantage. "Those are your noble EarthGov ideals, Jaeger? Mass murder? That may be President Clark's way, but it's not what I signed on for."

"You signed on to uphold Earth law!" Jaeger erupted. "You signed on to defend Earth's interests! We all did! Then one fine day, you decide you don't like what the President's doing." His voice lowered and he leaned forward, clenching his manacled hands into fists. "You decide you don't like the orders being issued. So what do you do? Do you contact your EarthGov representative and protest? Resign your commission and run for office yourself, since you don't agree with the way the government's handling things? Do you do _anything_ within the system you took an oath to defend? Oh, no. Not you. Not the great and noble John Sheridan. You're _above_ all that. You're too _good_ for that. You just walk away from it. You just declare independence like some goddamn Founding Father, and you turn in your Earthforce uniform for _that_." With his manacled hands he indicated Sheridan's black uniform. "Minbari fabrics. Minbari design. You're not one of us any more, Sheridan."

"I don't need to defend my actions to you," Sheridan said stiffly. "And I don't intend to debate politics with you."

"Then it looks as though we're wasting our time." Jaeger leaned back in his chair and went on. "Unless you want to gloat about how you managed to get at me. Frankly, you don't have the brains to have figured it all out. Someone must've helped you."

"Well, Jaeger, some of us still remember how to work as a team," Sheridan responded. "Let's just say that people who go around terrorizing little girls don't inspire a whole lot of loyalty."

"The brat." Jaeger nodded thoughtfully. "The Ranger. My mistake. I should have dealt with them both myself. That was the connection. I know you'd like me to believe you suborned one of my people, but I don't think so."

"Think again."

Jaeger was silent; mentally going over the roster of his followers, perhaps.

"How we 'got to you' isn't important," Sheridan said. "The point is that we have hard evidence that your actions led to the deaths of two sentient beings, and that you intended to kill others."

Jaeger shrugged. "Collateral damage, Sheridan; maybe you've heard of it. I was engaged in a military action to return this station to EarthGov control, where it belongs."

"And you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs," Garibaldi put in.

Jaeger threw him a contemptuous look, then addressed Sheridan. "Let's cut the crap. However you did it, you've got me, and I already know what's going to happen. You're judge, jury—and executioner too, I suppose. I'm as good as spaced. I know that. But just you remember one thing." He bent forward; the deep-set eyes glittered with passion. "I'm not the last patriot left. You win, this time. You won't in the end. Someday your luck will run out, and you'll be brought to account for what you've done. _And_ you," he added, to Garibaldi, "and that bitch Ivanova. I wanted to be the one to bring you down. You've managed to rob me of that. But don't think you've won." He leaned back. "I've got nothing more to say."

Sheridan stood, picked up the notes, and said coldly, "Sorry to disappoint you, but you'll get a fair trial under Earth law. I'll arrange for the Ombuds to appoint an advocate for you."

No answer. Jaeger stonily regarded the wall beyond Sheridan. The captain turned on his heel and left, followed by Garibaldi.

"It might not come to spacing," Garibaldi said after a few moments' silence. "We might not be able to prove premeditation. A brainwipe, now, I'd be satisfied with that. That's one personality we could all live without."

Sheridan didn't answer. His mouth was pinched and a deep line had dug itself between his eyebrows. Garibaldi found the silence disturbing.

"Cap'n, you don't _buy_ any of that crap he was spouting, do you? He can wrap himself in the flag as tight as he wants. He's still a saboteur and a murderer, not to mention a coward."

Sheridan replied then. "And there are probably thousands of people back home who would agree with every word he said and everything he did. Our fellow citizens. Our comrades-in-arms in Earthforce. It's not just the Shadows and the Psi Corps who keep Clark in power, Michael."

"Forget it," said Garibaldi roughly. "You did what you had to do. And if you can show me anyone back home who'd agree with what he did to Abbie Becker—well, I'll space 'em personally."

**Dr. Franklin scowled at his comlink as though Ivanova could see him through it.** He'd spent hours last night treating some of Jaeger's followers for PPG burns, bruises, and broken bones. Security, especially the Narn guards, hadn't been gentle with the Nightwatch renegades. Franklin understood that. But while he didn't have much sympathy for Jaeger's cadre, he'd still done his best for them. It had made for a short night's sleep, followed by his usual overfull morning and a hastily-snatched, inadequate lunch. The request Ivanova'd just relayed galled him. Maltir, the Gneissh First-Minister-turned-Ambassador, had demanded a meeting and demanded, further, that Franklin be present.

"What for?" Franklin asked. "Does anyone need medical help?"

"Negative. As far as I can tell, they want a face-to-face meeting with Jaeger, and they want it on their turf in Green sector. And Maltir insists you be there."

"Look, Commander, I'm really swamped today—"

Ivanova's voice hardened. "Doctor, the Ambassador made a request. If I need to, I can make it an order. The Gneissh pointed out to us that under Earth law, Jaeger has the right to confront his accusers. They want to do that, on their territory. Considering everything that's happened, the captain says we'll do it their way. Now, do you need any more explanation?"

Franklin reined in his temper. Ivanova couldn't help the orders she'd been given; and, on top of that, she was right. "Understood," he said. "I'll be there. When, and where?"

"Green Two airlock. Twenty minutes."

He would have just enough time to suit up and get there. _And for what? _he asked himself. The Gneissh were supposed to hate wasting time! Maybe they were more generous about other people's time than their own.

It was obvious which of the three encounter-suited figures waiting at the airlock for Franklin was Jaeger. Even before the doctor could distinguish the shielded faces, he saw that the prisoner was shackled, wrists restrained and anchored to a waist restraint. Garibaldi and Zack had their PPG's drawn and trained on Jaeger. Sheridan was also armed, though for now his weapon was holstered. With their free hands, Garibaldi and Zack gripped the prisoner's arms tightly. Even shackled, even under armed guard, he was restive, ready to break for freedom if the chance arose.

Through Zack's face shield, Franklin saw the beginnings of a black eye. It couldn't have been easy, forcing Jaeger into an encounter suit.

Sheridan nodded curtly to Franklin and accessed the airlock. Zack and Garibaldi pushed Jaeger forward.

The area that had been allotted to the Gneissh Ambassador had to be reached through several successive airlocks as the station's atmosphere was gradually modified, while their encounter suits' life-support generators supplied air matching that of Earth. The hazy, harsh atmosphere the party finally reached replicated perfectly that of the Gneissh homeworld; Ivanova, as usual, had done her research thoroughly.

Freed from the restraints of clumsy, ungainly encounter suits, the party of Gneissh who awaited the Humans looked—clumsy and ungainly. Their skin was grayish, their faces so flat as to be almost without features. Their clothing was drab and utilitarian, except for Maltir's. Maltir wore a red-orange, full-skirted, ankle-length robe with billowing sleeves into which his hands were tucked. A chain of office hung from his squatty neck. Franklin wondered whether the distinctive garb was meant to indicate Maltir's new ambassadorial rank or if it was the customary attire of a Gneissh First Minister.

Distinguishing one flat, gray-skinned Gneissh face from another took a little practice for most Humans, but both Sheridan and Franklin recognized Trade Minister Questal as he stepped forward to greet them. Franklin wasn't sure, but he thought he recognized the other three from the brief, unceremonious funeral of the dead merchant.

Questal, pointing, said, "You are Sheridan, the leader." His voice came clearly through the helmet speakers of the Humans' suits. He moved and pointed again. "You are Franklin, the healer." (_More or less,_ Franklin thought.) Questal gestured to Zack, said, "You," and waited.

"Me? Uh, I'm Zack. The, um, guard."

Garibaldi didn't wait to be pointed at. "Chief Warrant Officer Michael Garibaldi, head of security."

Questal lowered his had to his side, turned to face Jaeger, and stared. "And this one. This one causes the trouble."

"Yes, Trade Minister," said Sheridan.

Questal turned aside and stumped out of the way. Maltir came forward, red-orange robe swaying. The other three Gneissh came close behind him. The four of them silently regarded Jaeger for a full minute. They said nothing; they did nothing, except stand and look, unblinking, at Jaeger.

If it were Minbari now, Franklin thought uneasily, all this standing and staring would be standard protocol; the Minbari loved ritual and took plenty of time for it. But for the Gneissh to just stand there and look at Jaeger—he could almost hear Questal saying, _It is waste_—that felt uncanny, disturbing.

Jaeger stared through Maltir as if he weren't there.

Maltir pointed his chin at Jaeger. "You."

Silence.

"You cause trouble. Your trouble disrupts our trade. Your trouble kills our brother."

Silence.

"You regret this trouble."

Jaeger stirred, then, deigning for the first time to notice the Ambassador. He gave a contemptuous chuckle. "Regret? I just 'regret' that only one of your kind died."

"You say this. We hear it," Maltir said. Questal and the other three Gneissh echoed, "We hear."

Maltir pulled a slender, cylindrical object from one billowing sleeve, aimed it at Jaeger's midriff, and flicked a small triggering mechanism with his thumb. With a sudden flare of light and plume of vapor, a swift projectile shot out. Finding its mark just under Jaeger's breastbone, the missile effortlessly penetrated the prisoner's encounter suit.

Franklin froze in momentary horror. Then he remembered—these suits had a standard self-sealing feature to provide some protection against just such accidents. The breach in Jaeger's suit was already vanishing.

Before Sheridan could begin his protest, Jaeger snorted and sneered, "That's it, meth-head? That's the best you've got? Pathetic."

A small curl of mist floated up behind Jaeger's face shield.

"It is enough," Maltir said. "Our brother breathes your air. He dies. Now you breathe our air."

Sheridan began, "What have you—"

Jaeger was coughing now, his eyes widening as the haze behind his face shield began to thicken. Tranquilly, Maltir explained. "His suit does not make your air now. It makes ours."

Franklin darted forward, grabbing at the swaying prisoner. "Michael! Zack! We can still get him to—"

Maltir's voice was quiet over the gasps starting to come through the doctor's helmet speakers. "It is too late. Payment is being made."

Jaeger' torso jerked and his knees buckled. Zack and Garibaldi lowered him to the deck. He spewed bloody froth, and made a noise like water gurgling down a drain.

The Gneissh watched, unmoving. One of them said, "Our brother suffers. He suffers."

"You've got to let us try to help him!" the captain cried.

A gobbet of blood hit the interior of Jaeger's face shield. "Begging—Sheridan-? Just—_help_-!"

At a gesture from Maltir, Questal and the other Gneissh reluctantly moved back.

"You try," Maltir said. "There is no help."

Twisting now in his agony, desperately trying to control his movements, Jaeger contorted his body until he was facing Sheridan. More red foam sprayed his face shield. Barely visible now through the mess, his mouth worked, finally forming and emitting words.

"Alien—loving—bastard—!"

He convulsed.

Franklin was seized by an insane desire to grab Garibaldi's PPG and end Jaeger's agony.

The Gneissh stood and watched.

The strangled gurgling abruptly slowed, then stopped. A long sigh rattled through the helmets' speakers, and fell silent.

Jaeger's limbs went limp. His helmeted head fell back, rolling a little to one side. His face was completely obscured by the bloody spume.

Maltir tucked his hands, and the weapon, back into his sleeve and wordlessly left the room. Trade Minister Questal turned to Sheridan.

"The account is balanced," he said. "We continue our agreement with Babylon 5 as before. We withdraw our complaint."

**For several hours, still in shock, Franklin moved like an automaton through his duties.** Abruptly dismissed by the Gneissh, who'd simply turned and left, he had helped Zack and Garibaldi carry Jaeger's ravaged body back to the oxygen-atmosphere sector of Green. Later, in Medlab, after meticulously recording every detail of the mess he'd found when he opened Jaeger's chest, he certified the death.

Of course, Jaeger was already listed as dead. The Medlab computer rejected the new data several times before Franklin finally managed to override the data-entry protocol and enter the correct date and cause of death. No need to worry any more about the computer's balking at a routine command.

Franklin made the body as decent as possible and placed it in stasis until Sheridan could decide how to dispose of it.

_A murderer_, Franklin reminded himself. _A cold-blooded killer. A terrorist._ But then another part of his mind kept replaying the death-rattle in an endless loop. _A Human being. Jesus, how could anybody go so wrong?_

Finally, Dr. Hobbes admonished him to get the hell out of Medlab, to get himself some coffee. He made his way to an open-air café on the Zocalo and ordered the coffee. It sat, cooling, on the table in front of him while Franklin relived the horror again and again. The ghastly lumps of charred flesh that had replaced most of Jaeger's lung tissue. The frantic, strangled sounds of a man drowning in his own blood.

_Even Jaeger didn't deserve that._

"You need something stronger than coffee."

The tepid cup was pushed away, a snifter of brandy was set in its place, and Marcus Cole, glass in hand, took the other, vacant chair at Franklin's table. Franklin looked up at him, then stared stupidly at the brandy.

"Don't look at it. Drink it."

The doctor obeyed. The spirit's rich warmth began to spread over him as he took small mouthfuls.

"Better now?"

"Yeah." Franklin set down the snifter. "I'm okay. Thanks."

"Zack Allan came by my quarters to tell me what had happened," Marcus said. "Abbie wanted some time alone after lunch, so I let her go to the park, and I'd gone to my quarters to rest, like a good convalescent." (He didn't mention that he had actually slept for almost an hour.)

"_Zack_ told you? Why?"

Marcus shrugged. "I may have to revise my opinion of Mr. Allan. I think he's trying to make up a bit for that whole Nightwatch business. Thought Abbie might be easier if she knew Jaeger was gone. Thought I should be the one to decide whether to tell her, and how."

Franklin nodded, listening now, beginning to emerge from his brooding. "Will you tell her?"

"Haven't decided. Play it by ear. I'll know what to do.—Zack mentioned, in passing, that he'd thought you were going to be sick. Looked a bit green about the gills himself."

"It was—" Franklin resorted to the brandy— "It was pretty sickening. I don't know why the Gneissh insisted I be there for it."

"I do," Marcus said, and went on to explain. "Talked with Susan, after Zack left. Sheridan had her look into Gneissh law. Their executions have to be witnessed by witnesses to the original crime. You were one of them."

"Execution," the doctor repeated. "I guess legally you could look at it like that."

"Legally, there's no other way to look at it. On top of that, Maltir was an accredited ambassador, with full diplomatic immunity, and it happened in their assigned area of Green 2—technically, Gneissh territory and subject to their law. Sheridan couldn't do anything about it if he wanted to. Maltir's already left the station and headed home, Susan says." Marcus tasted his own drink, watching his friend closely.

After a moment Franklin said, "I guess I can see their point of view. But—"

"But _what?_ Brought it on himself, didn't he?"

Franklin said sharply, "Have you ever stood by and watched a man suffocate?"

Marcus subsided without replying. There was no compassion in his own heart for Jaeger, but evidently there was in Stephen's. "Sorry," he said, and with truth—he was sorry; not that Jaeger had suffered, but that Stephen was suffering now.

Franklin finished the brandy and sat nursing the snifter between his palms. Slowly, he said, "I suppose if they hadn't done it, it might have happened anyway. The Ombuds might have sentenced him to be spaced."

"Possible. Very possible."

"And then it would have been Sheridan's responsibility. He's got enough pressure on him now without that."

Marcus nodded without replying. Last night, he thought, Jaeger's life had been in _his_ hands. For a few mad moments, he had hoped Jaeger would put up a fight and give him a reason to exert that final, fatal pressure on the trachea. Now, though he couldn't fault what Maltir had done, he was relieved that he hadn't been Jaeger's executioner. It might have constituted vengeance for Hal and Abbie Becker, but could he ever let Abbie know how capable he was of killing? Better all around, really, for Jaeger to have met Gneissh justice.

Suddenly, changing the subject, Franklin said, "I hope you're not mixing alcohol with the medication I prescribed."

"No, this is fruit juice."

"Good." The doctor sounded like himself again, and his eyes had lost the distant, unfocused look they'd had when Marcus had put the brandy on the table. He went on, "I got your message, by the way, about Mrs. Wakefield. How'd Abbie take it?"

"Apprehensive. She doesn't remember her."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Marcus gave it a moment's consideration. "Can't think of a thing."

"What's she like?"

Marcus thought it over and said, "She's comfortable. Honest, good-hearted—you can talk with her. Once Abbie meets her, I think she should be all right."

"What about you?" Franklin asked.

"Me?" Marcus repeated. "What about me?"

"Surrogate fatherhood seems to agree with you. Are you all right with Abbie leaving?"

Very rarely was Marcus taken off-guard, but now, for a fleeting instant, an indefinable distress betrayed itself in his eyes. Then he drained the rest of his fruit juice, set the glass on the table, and said, "Naturally, I'm going to miss her. But you know me, Stephen. Not sentimental in the least. She'll have a safe home, where she's wanted. That's all that matters." He got to his feet, still talking. "Best make sure she's back at Susan's. See you later."

"Tomorrow," Franklin said. "Medlab, 0900 hours. You're still my patient. Thanks for the brandy."

"Tyrant. I'll put it on your bill."

Franklin watched his friend hurry off and wondered if he'd only imagined that flash of dismay. It was possible, but he doubted it. Unsentimental—he'd grant Marcus that. _Sentiment_didn't begin to describe the emotion which had prompted that flash, and which Marcus was trying so hard now to evade.

**It fell to Ivanova to tell Abbie the news.** Going to bed quite late, moving softly to avoid disturbing the child, she was surprised to hear Abbie's voice saying, "Lights." Abbie was sitting straight up in bed, the bear Baloo hugged tight against her, one finger in her mouth as she gnawed a nail. "It's okay. You don't have to be quiet. I'm not asleep," she said, unnecessarily.

"How come?" Ivanova asked. "You've been in bed for a couple of hours."

"I can't go to sleep. I keep thinking."

"About what?"

Abbie hugged the bear still closer, squeezing its soft body almost flat. "About when I leave. When that Mrs. Wakefield comes for me. He—That Man won't ever be able to find me, will he? I know, he's in jail," she hurried on, "but what if he breaks out or something? When I try to go to sleep, I start thinking about it and I can't stop."

_Not exactly a bedtime story_, Ivanova thought, with the familiar stab of outrage that any little girl should contend with this kind of fear. "Honey, you don't need to worry about that ever again," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He's dead."

The child's eyes went wide. The finger slid from her mouth and her lips soundlessly formed the word: _dead_.

She needed to know more; her whole face silently begged to hear more. Ivanova sketched it out for her: that one of the systems failures Jaeger caused had led to the death of an alien, and a representative of that alien's government had killed Jaeger in return. There the explanation floundered to a stop. None of the usual conventions involved with breaking the news of death applied. No one would mourn Jaeger—certainly not Abbie Becker. There was no need to offer sympathy or attempt consolation.

Abbie spoke at last. "Are you _sure?_"

"I'm sure. The captain and Mr. Garibaldi and Dr. Franklin saw it happen." Prudently, Ivanova avoided mention of Zack Allan.

"Oh," said Abbie. There was no emotion in her voice, but the look of anxious inquiry began to fade from her face. Still hugging Baloo, she slid down into the bed and pulled the covers up with her free hand. Ivanova leaned over to tuck her in.

"Are you okay, honey?"

"I'm fine."

"Would you like to sleep in my bed with me?"

"No. No, thanks. I'm okay."

Ivanova rose, feeling rather helpless—_I should probably be doing something, but what?_ She brushed out her hair and completed her own preparations for bed, then went to check on Abbie one last time. The child was asleep—securely, blissfully asleep.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

**Abbie brought it up to Marcus next morning over what had become their regular table at the Eclipse Café.**. (The waitress didn't even ask any more, but brought hot tea for Marcus and reconstituted pineapple juice for Abbie as soon as they sat down.) Scraping the last spoonful of oatmeal from her bowl, Abbie said, "He's dead. That Man. Susan told me."

Marcus was taken aback for a moment that the decision to tell her had been made without him. _Well, why not? It must have come up somehow, and why should Susan consult me? Surrogate fatherhood, indeed!_

"Yes, I know," he replied aloud. "I heard yesterday."

He was preparing to explain why he hadn't told her himself when she said, "I want to see him. I want to see him dead."

Thunderstruck, he studied her face. It was dry-eyed and firm-lipped. She was neither asking his permission nor seeking his help. She was asserting a right.

"Are you sure, love?"

"I saw Papa dead, with all the blood and everything." Her voice, even as it began to tremble, yet conveyed implacable purpose. "I want to see him dead, too."

She meant it. She knew exactly what she was after, and she meant it. She needed to lay Jaeger's ghost once and for all.

Well, he thought—why not? From Zack's account of the execution, Jaeger's body could be made presentable. How could viewing it possibly be any worse for her than what she had already seen and endured? If Abbie was able to draw the strength to do this from her traumas Downbelow, then Marcus saw no reason to even try dissuading her.

She was watching him impatiently as he thought it through, prepared to defy him if he tried to thwart her.

"Stephen wants to see me at 0900," he said. "We'll talk to him. He'll know where the body's been put."

Abbie nodded, brief and businesslike. "Okay." Then, finishing her pineapple juice, she said, "Are you gonna eat that toast?"

**Franklin didn't need much persuasion.** He asked, as Marcus had, "Is she _sure?_", but the simple statement that had convinced Marcus was equally convincing to him: Abbie had seen her own father's dead body; she now demanded to see Jaeger's. "I guess she's got a right," Franklin conceded. "It might even do her good."

Abbie watched, unflinching, when the doctor unlocked the stasis chamber and touched a control that slid out the slab with its shrouded burden. Franklin lifted the drape from the head, delicately folded it back at the shoulders, and stepped aside.

Abbie looked up at Marcus. "I have to do this by myself." Again, it was a statement of fact and not a request. Marcus accepted it as such and acknowledged her right with a nod.

She went up to the slab and looked down at Jaeger's dead face for what seemed like a very long time.

Franklin, watching her, was glad that the face showed so little trace of Jaeger's final agony. Nothing could have put a pleasant expression on it; even in death, it was indelibly stamped with the man's deep-seated arrogance and conceit. But at least they'd been able to smooth out the horrible rictus with which Jaeger had died.

_What a waste_, thought Franklin, watching the somber child look down at the dead man. _He must have started out as a decent Human being . . . ._

Marcus took a moment to have his own look at Jaeger from his post a few paces back, but the sight sparked nothing in him. Jaeger the Hunter was gone, and as far as Marcus Cole was concerned the Universe was a better place without him. It was Abbie who counted. The child who had given way to panic at the mere sight of Jaeger's picture stood looking her fill at him. She didn't look frightened; she didn't look sad; there was, indeed, almost no expression on the small freckled face. She hardly even looked like a child, displaying instead the forced maturity that had started breaking Marcus' heart the day they met. His right hand opened and closed, as though grasping his fighting pike. If only he could protect her forever, keep her from being hurt by anything ever again . . . .

Abbie, after a split-second of terror when the doctor uncovered That Man's face, found she wasn't afraid at all. _He's really dead,_ she told herself, several times. She stared and stared at the corpse, trying to make the death seem real.

This man had stormed into her life and ripped it to shreds. Had scared Papa so much that he'd moved them Downbelow. Had become bigger and more powerful than anything else, even invading her dreams so she wasn't safe anywhere. And now he was dead, like Papa. Powerless. No more able to hurt her than Papa had been able to help her . . .

"Did it hurt?" she demanded. "When he died? Did it hurt him? A lot?"

"Yes. Yes, it did," Franklin answered.

"Good." Her voice was dispassionate. After a moment, she turned away. "Thanks," she said to Franklin, and left the stasis area without a backward glance.

(**Abbie would be one of the last to see Jaeger's face**. After extensive discussions with an Ombuds and Garibaldi, Sheridan had hit on the solution to two problems: the disposition of the dead and the containment of the survivors.

(He would simply return them to Nightwatch. With a White Star and Ranger crew at his disposal—Delenn would see to that—he would ship the lot straight to Nightwatch headquarters in Geneva. A brief statement detailing Jaeger's crimes and execution was written, signed by all the witnesses, both Human and Gneissh, and attested by the Ombuds. The statement would be attached to the urn containing Jaeger's ashes.

(The Ombuds said doubtfully, "But to send all of them back to Nightwatch headquarters—that's almost like rewarding them."

(Garibaldi, who understood, was already nodding his head, a little smile on his face. "Nothing to worry about," he reassured the Ombuds. "Nightwatch doesn't reward failure.")

**When Abbie turned from That Man's body and walked away, she felt a door closing behind her**. Behind that door lay the whole of her life, good times and bad. Birthday presents. Helping Papa stack shelves and take inventory. The games Papa invented to help her learn addition facts and times tables.

Then, That Night. That Man's hand pressed on her throat. The smell of smoke and the crackling of flames. Papa, lying with unseeing eyes in a pool of blood. The cold, hungry hostility of life alone Downbelow.

Marcus had saved her from all that. He'd conquered That Man. He'd bought Abbie food when no one else cared whether she ate or went hungry. Finally, he'd brought her away from Downbelow altogether. Everyone else had looked the other way. Marcus had chosen to help her.

_That's my brave girl_, he'd said to her once, but Abbie knew that wasn't true. Just as the one door was closing behind her, another, before her, would open in a few days. When it did, she would have to step through it into the unknowable future; to Virgie Wakefield and the New Kenosha farm colony: a woman she didn't remember, in a place she'd never heard of.

Abbie felt like someone standing in an airlock, that in-between space that exists only to provide passage between one real place and another. You can't go back, into the vacuum of space, and you can't stay in the airlock forever. You can only go forward when the door opens, and, knowing that, she was scared to death. No, she wasn't Marcus' brave girl. She wasn't brave at all. And she wasn't his girl.

_Having a family can't be part of my life just now._ Because he was a Ranger. It was his job to deal with nasty people and do dangerous things, with people trying to kill him and almost succeeding. And being a Ranger meant more to him than anything. He would never give it up. _Not even for you, love_.

She felt terribly alone.

Marcus, of course, sensed at once that something was troubling her; but as usual he left it up to her to decide what and how much she wanted to confide in him. Perhaps, he suggested, she would feel easier if she knew something about the colony. Together, in Ivanova's quarters, they looked up its history and obtained pictures of it from the station's vast reference files. They took the printouts to Babylon Park, the nearest approximation available to New Kenosha's natural environment, and settled down at a picnic table just within earshot of the baseball field. After nearly two hours of intense study, Abbie thrust the pages across the table at Marcus. "Give me a quiz?" she requested. "Papa always used to."

"All right," he assented. Her mentioning her father led him to hope she would open up soon. Obligingly, he flipped through the pages at random and fired questions at her about New Kenosha's history, geography, principal products, and government. Abbie's answers were prompt and accurate. As the quiz progressed he could see her posture easing, her whole bearing become more relaxed and confident.

"Very impressive," he said at last, setting the pages neatly in order and handing them back to her. "People who were born there probably don't know half as much as you."

"I just don't want anybody there to think I'm stupid."

"Not possible, love."

With a satisfied little smile, she folded the printouts. Then, propping an elbow on the table and her chin on one fist, she asked, "Is this park like really being outside?"

"Close. Not quite."

"What's different?"

Evidently, he thought, it was Abbie's turn to quiz him.

"Well, for one thing," he said, "the temperature here is constant. If we were really outside, it might suddenly get a lot colder; say, if a cloud drifted between us and the sun."

Abbie looked up at the far-distant curve of the station's central core, trying to imagine a real sky, with clouds and a sun, like she'd seen in the pictures. "Which is better? This, or really outside?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'better'. Here, you never have to worry about rain on your picnic. But you never see a rainbow, either."

She ruminated on this; Marcus resisted the temptation to physically remove her right index fingertip from between her nibbling teeth. "I bet real outside is better," she pronounced at last. "They wouldn't make a fake outside like this if the real one wasn't important. This is like a toy outside."

"Something like that," he agreed, wondering with a touch of amusement if she was about to involve him in a Platonic dialogue about the nature of reality.

"It's like pretending," Abbie went on thoughtfully. "I didn't know grown-ups still pretended."

She emphasized the phrase "grown-ups" in a way that caught Marcus' attention. "Don't you pretend?" he asked..

"I used to," she answered soberly. "When I was little. And—" She reddened a little and looked down at the table top. "After Papa died. I used to pretend, then."

"That he was still alive," Marcus supplied gently.

She blushed harder and muttered something about babies.

"Is that why you gave it up?"

With her little twitching shrug she said, "It didn't help. It just made everything worse." She raised brimming eyes. "I _hate_ him being dead. I _hate_ not having anyone."

Marcus took her hand between both of his and offered, almost shyly, "You do have me, you know, love."

"I know, but—but that's still sort of pretend. It's not the same."

Because he would not lie to her, Marcus could only reply with a quiet, "You're right." He knew he could never fill the void Hal Becker's death had left in Abbie's heart; any more than the Rangers, Susan, Lennier, Stephen, Delenn, and Abbie combined could make up to him for everything he had lost. But still—

"If I were little," said Abbie wistfully, "I could make believe you were my uncle or something."

After a thoughtful silence, he replied slowly,. "You know, love—I had a family, once. And I've had a few friends. I know the difference. And you feel a lot more like family than like a friend."

"So?" A little suspicion edged her voice. She was not prepared to accept being patronized, or indulged, or in any way treated like a child.

Marcus went on, "Well—both of us are Human. Go back enough generations, I imagine we'd find a common ancestor somewhere. It's possible."

"So?" she repeated, still skeptical.

"So. I agree that you're too old to make believe we're uncle and niece. But to say we're just acquaintances is pretending too, isn't it? Because we both know that's not true."

She thought it over. "Not acquaintances. Friends."

"Friends, yes, but something more." Marcus was wracking his brain now. This was important. This was real. Then it came to him.

"Kinsman," he said. I'm your kinsman."

"What's that?"

"It means we're specially connected. Related somehow. We just don't know exactly how."

"Is that a real word?"

"We'll find a dictionary and you can look it up."

Exactly the sort of thing Papa might have said, she thought. "Does that make me your 'kinsgirl'?"

"Kinswoman. There's no such word as 'kinsgirl'."

_Kinswoman_—a title she could never outgrow; a genuine word, not something a grown-up had invented to make her happy for a little while. Maybe, then, in some small way, she really was Marcus' girl. For a little while longer, at least . . .

She drew on the idea for the fortitude she needed as the next few days sped by, dwindling away until the dreaded arrival of Virgie Wakefield was almost upon her. Time played an odd trick. Though the days seemed to race, each individual day stretched to an almost intolerable length. No matter how much activity she tried to cram into the hours, she had too much time to think and wonder and worry about what lay ahead.

She tried to prepare for her new life. She studied weather until she knew everything about sunshine, storms, and snow except what they really felt like. She arranged and rearranged her possessions three or four times a day, trying to plan her packing, wondering how she could get a suitcase but too shy to ask. With Marcus' help, she plotted the position of New Kenosha on a star chart and noted its location relative to the Moon, where she'd been born, Mars, where she'd been raised, and Epsilon Three, the planet around which Babylon Five orbited. "Not so far away," Marcus said encouragingly. It looked terribly far to her.

Encouraged by Delenn, Lennier spent time with them, continuing his personal researches in the field of ice cream and telling Abbie stories of how unsure he had felt upon leaving his Minbari monastery to come to Babylon Five. Knowing he meant to be helpful, she listened politely, but her own anxieties weren't relieved at all. And the only time a real chance came to ease her mind, she botched it.

It came when Susan, in C and C, paged Marcus to a public comm kiosk on the Zocalo. "Good, you got my page," she said as soon as Marcus keyed in. "Hang on. I've got a call for you and Abbie." Then her familiar face vanished from the viewscreen, and was replaced by a stranger's.

"Marcus?" the stranger said; and when he exclaimed, "Virgie!" Abbie realized that this was her guardian. And she froze.

She was vaguely aware of Marcus' voice, gently urging her to speak. She comprehended that her kinsman and her guardian were conversing, but they might as well have been speaking Minbari. Their words were just sounds in the air to her paralyzed mind. Too busy watching to be able to listen, she stared at Virgie Wakefield's face, desperately, fruitlessly trying to dredge up a single tiny memory of her.

The instant the communication ended and the screen blanked she was released, as though from a spell. She bolted away, overcome by embarrassment and shame. Marcus followed her without attempting to intervene, keeping her in sight until she started to slow down. Then, in a few swift strides, he caught up with her and lightly rested his hand between her shoulder blades. She flinched, but just a little.

"I'm sorry—I shouldn't have made you run—"

"No problem, love, I'm all right."

Abbie's steps slowed. "She'll think I'm rude. She'll think I'm stupid."

"No. She thinks you're a bit shy, that's all. She understands."

The child moved closer to him, let him put his arm around her, and yielded to his guidance. He started for the Zen garden.

Guessing that Abbie had absorbed little, if any, of the conversation, Marcus said matter-of-factly, "She's arriving tomorrow at 1000 hours on the transport _Austen_. I think it'd be cordial of us to be there to meet her."

Her reply was so soft he had to strain to hear it. "Shouldn't I be packing my stuff?"

"Well, you're not leaving quite yet. She's going to be staying on the station a few days. She has to see the Ombuds and sign some papers and things like that. It's grown-ups' business, love, you don't need to worry about it."

"Staying where on the station?"

"Susan's arranging something for the two of you."

They had reached the Zen garden. Abbie drew away from Marcus and walked slowly to the gravel bed. The design she'd raked into it a few days ago had not been disturbed. Once again, she spoke so low as to be almost inaudible. "And then she takes me away?"

"And then," Marcus corrected her gently, keeping his voice steady, "she takes you home."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

**For the twentieth time that morning, Abbie asked, "What if she doesn't like me?"**

"Not possible, love," replied Marcus, also for the twentieth time that morning.

The transport _Austen_ had arrived on time; but she'd had to wait her turn to dock and disembark her passengers. Now, after half an hour, the first passengers were just beginning to trickle into the passenger lounge from Customs. Abbie was in agony, fidgeting, twisting her hands together, fixing each new arrival with a haunted stare.

And then Virgie Wakefield appeared, a sturdy figure in tan slacks and a floral print blouse, walking into the lounge with a quick, firm step. A delicate gold cross winked on her throat. Eagerly, she scanned the faces before her.

Abbie held her breath.

Mrs. Wakefield spotted them, lifted one hand in a brief wave, and headed straight to Abbie. Her plain, middle-aged face was transformed by a radiant smile; at the same time, tears had begun to stream down her cheeks.

"Hello, Abbie." She stooped down to look the child in the eye. "I know you don't remember me. I'm Virgie Wakefield. Here—I've brought you something." She began rummaging in the tote bag she carried, pausing only to look up for a moment and add, "Hello, Marcus."

"Virgie," he responded warmly, his heart singing at the rightness of her having greeted Abbie first.

Virgie pulled a small leather folder from the tote bag, opened it, and placed it puzzled in Abbie's hands. "This is for you."

The folder held two pictures, side by side. Abbie, open-mouthed, puzzled over the one on the left. "That looks like—_me_," she said in a dazed voice.

"That's your mama, honey, when she was just your age. And the other little girl in the picture is me." Virgie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "We were best-friends-for-always."

Marcus peered down over Abbie's shoulder at the picture. Two little girls, gleefully embracing, mugged for the camera; one of them could almost have been Abbie. She had Abbie's wide forehead and pointed chin, the face topped by a tangle of curls; only the blue eyes were different. In the small, merry eyes and slightly buck-toothed grin of the other child, and in the little gold cross around her neck, Marcus could find traces of the present-day Virgie.

Virgie was going on, pointing to the right-hand picture. "That's you, the baby in that picture. And there's your mama, all grown up, holding you. And there's your daddy. And that's me, next to them, and my husband, Dan, and our daughter, Sylvie."

Abbie pored raptly over the picture. Her right forefinger with its chewed-up nail tenderly traced her parents' faces. "Thank you," she finally remembered to say, raising eyes like stars from the little folder just long enough to glance at Virgie's face before returning to the contemplation of her treasure.

_Thank you_, Marcus echoed silently, to Virgie Wakefield, and to Whoever or Whatever might be there to hear.

**Marcus breakfasted alone these days, only once at the Eclipse Café.** ("Just one?" the waitress asked in surprise; he avoided the place thereafter.) His convalescence progressed rapidly, strength and stamina flooding back as the wound healed completely and the bruise faded away. He finished up the anti-infective, left the remaining pain medication on the shelf beside the never-opened sleeping pills, and took his preslecomp only because Abbie was still here to remind him.

Their friendship seemed to be reshaping itself into something resembling the pattern of its early days. He no longer called for Abbie, who now shared guest quarters with Virgie. Instead, they sought one another out each day, meeting as though by chance. It had the flavor of hide-and-seek. Each meeting felt like a gift to both of them as the day of Abbie's departure came inexorably nearer.

Sometimes, Abbie was with Virgie when Marcus found her. When that happened, Marcus stopped, exchanged a few minutes' cordial conversation with them both, then found somewhere else he needed to be—monitoring Shadows activity in the war room, perhaps, or spending an hour in one of the empty cargo bays where he had resumed his daily pike practice. A relationship was growing between Abbie and her guardian; Marcus could sense Abbie's increasing trust in Virgie, and he was reluctant to intrude on them.

But, often, Abbie was on her own while Virgie dealt with the Ombuds to settle Hal Becker's affairs, or consulted with Dr. Franklin. On these occasions the child and Marcus fell into their customary pattern of wandering the Zocalo, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes conversing, as Abbie felt inclined. Her conversation began to be peppered with the phrase, "Virgie says." Virgie said Abbie's smile was just like her mother's. Virgie said Abbie would have a room all her own, which her foster-sister Sylvie was getting ready for her. Virgie said—here Abbie sounded anxious—that Abbie would have to go to school.

"Give it a chance," Marcus advised. "You might like it, you know."

"Did you?"

"Sometimes."

He seldom gave her advice now; seldom even spoke, preferring to listen, grateful that Virgie was earning a place in Abbie's affections, reminding himself that it was natural and right, even necessary, that he himself should gradually be displaced.

Two days before she was due to leave for New Kenosha, Abbie found Marcus lingering over his solitary breakfast by a quickbread kiosk on the Zocalo. Her face was like thunder, mouth puckered into a disapproving grimace. Marcus pushed his empty plate aside. "What is it, love?"

"She wants to talk to you," Abbie replied, in a voice better suited to announcing that Virgie wanted to launch a nuclear strike against Centauri Prime. "She wants to ask you a favor. Tell her _No_."

"Suppose you tell me what it is."

"_She_ can tell you."

Marcus was tempted to say, "Who's _she_, the cat's aunt?" but it was obvious that Abbie was in no mood to receive a lesson in manners. She stalked at his side, silent all the way to the guest quarters, while he wondered what in the world Virgie could want that had made the child so angry.

Virgie was waiting for them, seemingly placid but nervously fingering her little gold cross. "I didn't think Abbie'd have much trouble finding you," she said with a quick little smile.

"Can I _go_ now?" Abbie asked.

"Okay," answered Virgie. This time the smile was warm. "We'll meet you back here at lunchtime. Don't worry, honey, it'll—"

The child turned to Marcus. "Say _No_," she demanded again, and was out the door and down the corridor.

Virgie sighed and ran the palms of her hands down her thighs. "I'm sorry about that. She's been giving me a rough time today." Squaring her shoulders with a determined air, she went on, "I need to see this Downbelow place Abbie talks so much about. I'd like you to take me."

So that was the mysterious favor; and the reaction he'd taken for anger on Abbie's part was probably not so much anger as fear, as the two people she relied on most set off to the most dangerous place she knew. "It's not very pleasant," he warned her.

"Or very safe, from what Abbie tells me. That's why I'd like you to take me."

But she would go alone, if necessary, Marcus saw. Whether or not she was naturally brave, she would run the risk for Abbie's sake. "Let's go, then."

She smiled, relieved, and reached for her tote bag.

"Best leave that," Marcus said. "You won't need it, and there's no sense tempting fate."

Virgie slowly set down the tote bag, then tucked the gold cross down inside her blouse. "So it's that bad?"

"It can be."

As they left the guest quarters, they both glanced up and down the corridor for Abbie, but she was nowhere in sight. Virgie shook her head. "Sometimes I just don't know how to handle her. She reminds me so much of Mari, but there are times—like yesterday. We started packing yesterday. I picked up those books she keeps with Hal's Shakespeare, and Abbie had a fit! She yelled and screamed at me for even touching them. Then she cried and apologized for an hour."

"She doesn't feel safe with anger."

"She doesn't feel safe at all!" the woman exclaimed. "That's why I have to see this Downbelow. I need the whole picture, and I can't get it from Abbie."

Marcus escorted her to the nearest core shuttle station. As they waited for the shuttle, Virgie went on, "I have some idea of what's happened to Abbie from things she's told me; and I've spoken a lot with Dr. Franklin and Commander Ivanova. But you seem to be closer to her than anyone. And every time I see you, you seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere else. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been avoiding me."

"Not quite," he replied. The shuttle pulled in, gliding silently to a stop. Marcus waited until he and Virgie had boarded before he continued. "It's true, I am close to her. It's you she ought to be getting close to. Didn't want to get in the way."

"I see." Virgie's voice was quiet, suddenly reserved, and neither of them spoke again until after they'd disembarked at the Brown section terminus.

"Might be best to start at the beginning," Marcus said. "Shall I show you where Abbie and I met?"

"Please."

Bit by bit, as they moved through Downbelow, Marcus told Virgie about his relationship with Abbie. From the edge of the bazaar where he'd first rescued the child from Jaeger, he took Virgie to the Abandon All Hope and the tawdry cafés where he'd bought Abbie meals. They passed the seven-fingered alien thimblerigger, still running his endless shell game. Virgie listened in silence; only the quick darting of her eyes betrayed her apprehension. Eventually, she spoke.

"You haven't showed me the potter's shop. Abbie said you were hurt outside a potter's shop. She doesn't say much about it."

"Not much to say," he replied, but he obligingly took her down the corridor where he'd been ambushed, and to the potter's. There was no trace left of his ordeal; whatever bloodstains hadn't been cleaned up by the perfunctory maintenance crews who tended to Brown sector, had long since been ground and trodden into the general grime of the floor. Virgie regarded the ramshackle little shop with the grave attention one might give to an historical monument.

"Abbie doesn't say much about it," she said, "but I heard a lot from Dr. Franklin. The way she attacked him, when she thought he was hurting you—that's the sort of thing Hal would have done. He had his faults, but he was never afraid to stand up for what he believed in." She sighed. "Maybe, if he had been, he'd still be alive."

"But would he still be Hal Becker?"

"That's the catch," she said, with a melancholy half-smile. "That kind of courage carries so much risk. But of course, you already know that."

Marcus looked away and quickly turned the subject. "There's one more place you should see," he said.

Bettina's Pleasure Palace, in the light of the station's artificial mid-morning, looked shabby and dirty and sad. The door was locked and barred at this time of day, but through a window Marcus and Virgie could see empty glasses on littered tables, overturned chairs amid a scatter of trash and broken glass on the floor. For a moment, in the imaginations of them both, a small earnest figure moved through the debris with broom and dustpan.

Marcus hardly recognized Virgie's voice when she spoke. He wouldn't have believed this gentle woman capable of such a degree of contempt. "I suppose I should be grateful that—that _creature_ didn't make Abbie into—into one of her 'girls'," Virgie said. "But she could at least have _fed_ her. Of all the unfeeling, cruel bit—" She broke off, pressed her lips tight shut, and brought herself under control.

"Let's get out of here, please," she said. "I think I've seen enough."

Though her mouth trembled, she maintained her self-control all the way back to the terminus. Once they were safely aboard the core shuttle, though, a torrent of words broke out.

"What a horrible place. My God! Mari's little girl, living there alone for all those weeks." Fishing up the gold cross on its chain from inside her blouse, she looked full at Marcus. "And you went back there for her. A day after you nearly died, you went all that way to get her out. _That_ she's told me about, I don't know how many times."

"You would have done the same," said Marcus with conviction.

"Maybe I would have; but you_ did_."

"Not as soon as I should have."

Virgie gave up trying to praise him and sat quietly, lost in her own thoughts.

They disembarked at the first shuttle stop in Red sector, the first stop out of Downbelow. Abbie emerged from some hidden vantage point and swooped down on them. Unable to hug them both at once, she latched onto Marcus, reaching her other hand to seize one of Virgie's. "I was worried," she said, accusingly, to Virgie. "I told you I didn't want you to go there."

"Had to, love," Marcus replied, running a hand over her hair. "Virgie needed to see it. All over now, and we're safe as houses."

The child looked up at her guardian, squeezed Virgie's hand, and said, "Can I—is it all right—?"

"You two go have fun," Virgie said.

With a final, grateful squeeze, Abbie released her hand and turned to Marcus. "I thought I could go and tell everyone goodbye," she said. "Then tomorrow, we won't have to think about it being my last day."

**Marcus woke very early the next morning**, well before the alarm was set to chime, and lay awhile in the darkness of his narrow room, feeling hollow and depressed. He rose, dressed, lighted candles and tried to meditate, then broke his fast with a cup of tea. And still it was far too early to call for Abbie as they had arranged.

It was just as well that Abbie'd made her goodbyes yesterday; Marcus was glad to have that melancholy little pilgrimage behind him. Everyone, with one exception, had taken a few moments for a real farewell. Stephen and Dr. Hobbs in Medlab; Garibaldi, in his office ("You keep that bear in line, now"). When they'd found Lennier in Green Sector, Delenn was with him, and Delenn received them so warmly that after a few moments even Abbie forgot her shyness. And Captain Sheridan had set aside a stack of important-looking reports on his desk to shake Abbie's hand and wish her a good journey.

The exception, in C and C, was Ivanova, who said brusquely, "You don't leave till day after tomorrow. Don't count your goodbyes before they're hatched."

Afterward, in the lift, Abbie had ventured, "I guess she was real busy—"

"She's going to miss you terribly, love, and she's trying not to think about it," he'd replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

So Abbie had said goodbye to everyone—almost—and there remained one last day for Marcus to make golden for her. Providing it ever began . . . .

The chime of his Babcom unit startled him, it still being so early. Virgie's face appeared on the screen when he answered. She began at once, speaking softly, "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I've been up for a while."

"Good." She took a deep breath, like someone about to dive into cold water. "Marcus, you and I need to talk before tomorrow morning. I'd like you to join me for dinner tonight."

It was more urgent than a simple invitation, he saw; but something Virgie felt she needed to do yet wasn't quite certain about, like yesterday's expedition Downbelow. "Yes, of course," he said. "Will Abbie be joining us?"

"No. I'll arrange something for her. If you could have her back, by, say, six tonight, we'll go from here. Is that all right?"

"That's fine."

Virgie suddenly cocked her head and glanced over her shoulder at something that didn't show on Marcus' viewscreen. She was smiling when she turned back. "Looks like she's waking up. I'll let you go now."

"Tell her I'll be by in about half an hour to take her to breakfast."

**Abbie wanted nothing all day, it seemed, but to hear Marcus tell stories.** Right after breakfast she'd asked for one; she didn't care what kind of story, she said, then immediately changed her mind and asked to hear about Robin Hood. They wandered to Babylon Park and found a bench, where they sat side by side, Abbie periodically nestling up against Marcus so he could put his arm around her.

It was Robin Hood all morning; King Arthur, Kipling's "Just-So" stories, and folk tales all afternoon. Marcus delved deep into his mental treasure-trove for stories and gave each one the best performance he could. Now and then Abbie asked a question or made a comment; then, after the briefest of conversations, she settled against the back of the bench, or snuggled up to him, and said, "Go on," or "Now tell me another."

He had no idea why she wanted so many stories. By mid-afternoon, he seriously wondered which would give out first, his voice or his repertoire. He was sure he was telling her every single story he knew. But this was what Abbie wanted. Today was Abbie's day, and as long as Marcus could remember another story, Abbie should have it.

He had no idea why she wanted so many stories. He didn't guess that she was memorizing him.

Tomorrow, Abbie knew, she would have to say good-bye and leave him, and who knew how long it would be before she saw him again? _If _ she ever saw him again. (The wound—the blood—the motionless form lying in Medlab—) In a remote corner of Abbie's mind lurked a reluctant consciousness of how dangerous Marcus' life as a Ranger was.

So, as deliberately and diligently as she'd memorized the Minbari phrases he'd taught her or the objects for Kim's game, she set out to memorize Marcus. The strength of his arm around her shoulders. The way the light glinted from the Ranger brooch he kept so brilliantly polished. The stories he chose, the expressions on his face as he spoke, his voice, his accent; above all, his exact intonation when he called her "love".

Time played its odd trick on her again. So complete was her absorption in Marcus that Abbie left her anxieties behind and let herself be lulled into a sense of eternity, afloat on an endless sea of stories from which she emerged only once, briefly, for lunch. Her waking up that morning was a distant memory. Then lunch receded to a barely perceptible interlude in the immeasurable, timeless contentment of this day.

Then, without warning, Marcus was saying, "Time to go, love."

"Already?" She pulled away from leaning up against him and sat up, blinking.

"I promised Virgie I'd have you back by six," Marcus reminded her, withdrawing his arm and getting to his feet.

She was about to protest when he said gently, "Let's not spoil today, love. Come on. We'll take our time going back." Resigned, she got up.

Virgie was waiting when they returned to the guest quarters. So was Ivanova, who sat at the Babcom console running diagnostics. Abbie, immediately suspicious, said, "Are you here to baby-sit me or something?"

"Me? Baby-sit _you?_ Oh, please," Ivanova replied with scorn. "These comm consoles need checking out now and again. I came to check out this console. Maybe, when I finish, you and I could play some gin rummy or something. Your choice."

Virgie picked up her tote bag. "See you two later."

"Susan jumped at the excuse to spend a couple of hours with Abbie," Virgie confided to Marcus as they left the guest quarters. "Though you'd never know it to listen to her. I thought this would be good for them both."

Dinner, she insisted firmly, was her treat. Marcus acquiesced, after the token protest which common courtesy demanded, and in his turn suggested several restaurants along the Zocalo which he knew to be modestly priced.

When the salad course was set before them, Virgie bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Marcus, taken by surprise, quietly set down his fork and waited in silence. Virgie finished her prayer, spread her napkin on her lap, and commented, "My, this looks good."

"Quite fresh, which isn't always easy here, what with import regulations and the like." Marcus took a forkful of salad. "You said we needed to talk. May I ask what about?"

"It's—well, I hardly know where to start."

She ate a bite, then went on. "Mari Ellis—Abbie's mother—was the closest friend I ever had. We were like sisters. Closer than sisters. We grew up together. When I married Dan, she was my maid of honor. When Dan got restless and we moved from Earth to Lunar Prime, she followed a few months later. That's where she met Hal Becker."

"And you were her matron of honor," Marcus guessed.

Virgie flashed him a smile. "And Dan gave her away, and our daughter Sylvie was her flower girl. Except no one could afford flowers on Lunar Prime, so Sylvie scattered confetti instead.—Hal loved Mari so much," she went on, softly. "They were so happy. He stopped drinking then, I think. And they adored Abbie-she was such a happy baby—" With a quick gesture she swiped at her eyes and picked up her fork, eating a little more salad before she went on.

"That picture I gave Abbie was taken the week before Dan and Sylvie and I left Lunar Prime for New Kenosha. We loved colonial life, but we were sick of Lunar Prime. We wanted trees and streams and green fields. Three weeks after we said good-bye, Mari was killed in a groundcar crash. Gone—Abbie was just fifteen months old." She fell silent, meditatively toying with her salad.

"Please understand," she went on at last. "It was a terrible time. I'd had a miscarriage right before we got the news of Mari's death. Sylvie was having a lot of trouble adjusting to New Kenosha. Looking back now, though, I keep seeing how much I should have done for Hal and Abbie."

"You had your own life, and your own family," Marcus said quietly.

Virgie nodded with an air of resignation. "We did try to stay in touch with Hal. I wrote to him. We called as often as we could afford it. But Hal—I don't know. Maybe it was the drinking. Maybe dealing with us just hurt too much, with Mari gone." She took a sip of water. "About a year after Mari died, my letters started coming back. Our calls didn't go through. He'd moved, and he never told us where." Virgie took a sip of water. "It was like—like losing Mari a second time. I wondered, for years . . . and then you called."

They ate in silence, finishing the salad course. Over the entree, Marcus ventured, "He did remember how much you cared. He kept you in his will as Abbie's guardian."

"And I thank God for that," she replied. "Marcus—the reason I've told you all this, the reason I needed to talk to you—please, Marcus. Don't make the same mistake Hal did."

He frowned, puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"Something you said yesterday disturbs me. That you and Abbie were close, but that she should be getting close to me now, and that you were keeping out of our way."

"And that disturbs you? I don't understand."

Virgie exhaled harshly, frustrated. "When Hal cut me and Dan out of his life, he cut us out of Abbie's, too. He cut her off from people who loved her and could have helped her. Are you about to do the same thing? Cut her off from you?"

Marcus' reply was careful, controlled. "Not the same thing. Hal Becker, if you're right, was trying to protect himself. I'm trying to protect Abbie. It's not a good idea for her to stay emotionally committed to me."

"Too late," she said. "It's way too late to start worrying about that. This is because you're a Ranger, isn't it?"

"Abbie's told you about that?"

Virgie nodded. "Even if she hadn't, I'd have known. We're remote, out there in the Orion system, but we hear things, more than ever since we broke away from Earth Gov. We've heard something about the Rangers." Her voice went soft. "There are—terrible times are coming, aren't they?"

"Not if we can stop them," he replied. "But stopping them has to come first, at least for me. Before anything. Even before Abbie."

She said it for him: "Before your own life."

"Yes."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I see. You don't want her to go through another bereavement if you—if something happens to you. You want to spare her."

"Exactly."

"You can't," she said. "It's too late. She won't stop caring about you just because she leaves Babylon Five. If, God forbid, you're killed, then yes, she'll suffer. But can't you see that if you just—abandon her, let her go, she'll believe you stopped caring about her? Or that you never really did? And that she'll suffer even more?"

Marcus' jaw tightened. After a minute he said, with an edge to his voice, "I have no intention of abandoning her. But after a while, I expect—no, I hope—she'll outgrow me."

Virgie seemed unperturbed. Beginning to smile warmly now, she shook her head and said, "I doubt it. You don't hear how she talks about you. Oh, she'll mention how kind Susan's been, or how Mr. Garibaldi makes her laugh, and she seems to be very fond of Lennier. But it always comes back to you. It always comes back to, 'But Marcus _understands_'." She went on with care, like a surgeon about to probe a wound. "She tells me you've lost your own family. That you've been through a terrible disaster of some kind."

"Again, not the same thing," he replied, guardedly. "I was a grown man when it happened."

"Not quite the same," she conceded. "But close enough. Marcus, any help Abbie needs, I'll see that she gets. I hope you know that. We have counselors in New Kenosha, good ones. But there's a certain kind of help I think she can get best from you. She needs that—that understanding you have, that experience of _going on_ with life after whatever it was that you went through. And if you don't mind my saying so, I think she could do you good."

Marcus searched for a reply to that, and found none. The silence lengthened between them.

"Well," said Virgie at last. "You have our comm code. If you don't have our address, I'm sure you can get it—"

"I have it. Got it when I got the comm code, from Becker's will."

Silence again.

"I know what you want from me," Marcus said at last. "You want some sort of promise; that I'll call, or that I'll visit. I can't promise that. My life's not my own. I won't make her a promise I might be forced to break."

Virgie regarded him closely, watching his eyes as he spoke; she was taken aback by the pain she saw there. "I'm sorry," she said. "Yes, that was what I wanted. You're right, of course. I didn't realize what I was asking of you." Silence. Then: "If it helps—does it help to know our door's always open to you?"

"It does. Very much."

"Well." She ate a little bit more, without tasting what she ate. Then, with a slow return of her slightly bucktoothed smile, she said, "Abbie's always been able to trust you. I guess I can, too."

"Thank you."

They finished the meal in silence.


	25. Chapter 25 and Last

**Chapter 25**

**The commercial transport **_**Dolphin**_** was scheduled for an early departure, at 0830.** Her passengers, preparing to board in Babylon 5's departure lounge, were a mixed lot: a minor Centauri official accompanied by two of his wives; a small clutch of warrior-caste Minbari, keeping strictly to themselves; a lone Pak'ma'ra, munching something smelly from a cardboard box and given a wide berth by everyone else in the lounge. There were also about a dozen Humans, mostly traveling in groups of two or three.

Marcus and Abbie stood off to one side, not speaking, not looking at one another. Both of them were studying the departure board, which ticked down the seconds and minutes with heartless efficiency. _Dolphin_ would depart right on time. Final passenger boarding would take place in twenty minutes.

"I'm not gonna cry or anything," Abbie announced abruptly. "I'm not a baby."

"I know, love."

He wanted to reach down and take her hand, but she had her arms folded protectively across her chest. One fist clutched the strap of her new carryall, from which Baloo the bear's brown plush face peeked out.

Virgie, standing a little apart watching them, bit her lower lip and said nothing.

Fifteen minutes left.

"Almost forgot. Brought you something." Marcus reached into an inside pocket and brought out a small package. "Give you something to do on the way."

"Can I open it now?"

"If you like."

The package was austerely wrapped in plain white paper. Abbie opened it, still clutching the carryall strap, and read the title of the small book in her hand. "_The Little Prince_, by—" Her brows knitted as she studied the odd name.

"Antoine de Saint Exupéry," Marcus supplied.

"What's it about?"

"Oh—space travel. Sunsets. Friendship. All sorts of things. Thought you might like it."

Abbie, blinking her eyes rapidly, swallowed hard and tucked the book into her carryall. "Thanks." She dug around in the carryall's depths. "Here. I've got something for you, too."

Marcus didn't open the parcel she thrust up at him. He didn't need to. The moment it was in his hand he recognized the shape and heft of the _Jungle Books._ "Are you sure, love?"

"_Your attention, please. All passengers of Transgalactic transport _Dolphin_, please prepare for boarding. Final boarding call in ten minutes."_

Abbie and Marcus froze. Their eyes met. Their faces were twin mirrors of desolation and dismay.

Then he was down on one knee and she was locked in his embrace, her own arms wrapped fiercely around his neck as she pleaded, "Please keep it—I want you to have it—so you won't forget me."

"Not possible," he said, softly, but she heard him clearly; his breath warmed her ear and the back of her neck. "Not possible. I never forget anyone I love."

"Me neither." She clung to him for few more seconds, then let go and rubbed a fist over her wet face. "Can you—will you still be my kinsman?"

"Always. Always. I promise," he said. "Tell you what I've done. I contacted the Ranger headquarters, on Minbar. Gave them your name and your new address. Told them you're my kinswoman."

She drew herself up, smiling through tears, with all the dignity she could muster. Marcus kissed her once, on the forehead, received her kiss in return, and got to his feet. "Write to me," he said. "Let me know how you like the book."

"Okay."

"_Your attention, please—"_

At almost the last minute Marcus remembered Virgie and turned to her. She caught him in a quick embrace, holding his wet, bearded face against her cheek for a moment. She was aware, as Abbie could not be, of the fuller implications of his naming Abbie his next of kin. "Don't be a stranger," she whispered.

"I won't. I promise."

"You'll be in all our prayers," she promised, and released him.

Abbie, clutching her carryall, refusing to take Virgie's hand, took one last look over her shoulder before vanishing down the gangway with the _Dolphin's_ other passengers. Marcus lingered a moment, then went swiftly to the observation port. Avidly, like a tourist who'd never seen a launch before, he watched as the _Dolphin_ slid out of the docking bay into space. The jumpgate's lights came up, flashed one by one down along the structure's gates in their prescribed sequence, and the _Dolphin_ leaped forward and vanished. A final flash, like a single star, signaled the ship's safe passage into hyperspace.

"Splash." Delenn's gentle voice, at Marcus' elbow. "She is safe, now, your little starfish?"

"Yes, I think she is." Marcus turned from the port. He was grateful that Delenn had remembered when Abbie was due to leave and had chosen to come; even more grateful that she had waited for the exact right moment before speaking to him.

"You certainly made a difference to that one," Delenn said. "And you, Marcus? That part of your heart you thought had gone dead?"

"She took some of that with her, I think." Marcus started to walk away from the observation port, which could hold no further interest for him now. Delenn fell into step beside him, and he went on, "Left me with a bit of hers, in exchange." He couldn't have admitted that to anyone except Delenn; and now, even with her, he felt suddenly reticent, almost shy, and turned the subject. Gesturing a little with the wrapped parcel in his hand, he said, "Not sure what to do about this, though."

"What is it?"

He unwrapped it with great care under her watchful eyes. "It was hers. She wanted me to have it."

"A book? You, of all people, are not sure what to do about a book?" Delenn's voce was lightly teasing.

"I don't keep things," he explained. "I don't own things, beyond the bare essentials. It's a distraction."

"I see. But let me be sure I understand. Abbie wished you to own and to keep this book, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"I would call that _essential_," said Delenn. She stopped walking, drawing him to a halt beside her, and lightly placed the fingertips of her right hand on his chest. "Keep the child in your heart," she said. "Keep the book in your quarters. They will give you strength. I think you will find that neither of them is a distraction." Withdrawing her hand, she resumed walking. "May I ask, where do you usually meditate?"

"My quarters, usually, when I'm on the station. Someplace quiet."

"And without distractions. I see. If I may suggest—go someplace else. Someplace noisy, with many, many distractions. Go now. See if you are able to focus your heart."

Marcus slipped the book into the crook of his arm, leaving his hands free for the formal Minbari bow. Delenn bowed back and quietly left him. His eyes followed her until she turned a corner and was lost to sight.

Noise and distractions. At this hour of the morning, the Zocalo provided an abundance of both. Marcus wandered on for a while, selected a bench at random, and sat down.

_Focus your heart._ Find that place that is no place; slip out of Time; glide past grief and regret to the love that beats at the heart of the Universe.

Sitting on a bench in the Zocalo, in the midst of hurrying pedestrians, amid a babble of random conversation, Marcus briefly heard the silent beat of that loving Heart. A whisper, no more, but enough to tell him that Delenn was right. For a long time he remained there, Abbie's love-token in his hands. It seemed to him he could still see, marking her safe passage home, a single flash of light, like a star.

-Finis-

-Soli Deo Gratia-


End file.
